


Dark Falcon

by Weirwoo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Victorian Opera, victorian circus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 66,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weirwoo/pseuds/Weirwoo
Summary: Brienne Tarth returns to King's Landing as the Sapphire Soprano, a famous opera star with a rare voice and a mysterious past.A story of love and loss set in the 19th century, imbued with the opera, the Victorian circus, and a touch of magic.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 173
Kudos: 148





	1. One: The Return

**Author's Note:**

> Another historical AU, though I swear, none of my stories have been set in the Victorian period yet! The premise of this story was inspired by _Queen of the Night_ , a novel by Alexander Chee, but the events/characters of this fic have NOTHING to do with the wonderful book. Honestly, I hadn't intended on writing another long fic, but it grabbed me, and here it is, a few months later. Please note I know nothing about opera.
> 
> Notes on the story: in this world, Cersei and Jaime are cousins (I couldn't bear to deal with sibling incest again). I chose not to use warnings, but I will warn for any disturbing content prior to the chapter. This fic is rated Explicit so expect smut at any time!
> 
> Also, Brienne does kiss more than Jaime, so if you're not into that, I warned you. Obviously, Jaime and Brienne are endgame, as with all my works.

When the music from the orchestra rose, the Sapphire Soprano’s voice not only matched but transcended it, soaring like a fierce bird in flight. This particular aria was notoriously difficult, and had broken the most renowned of sopranos; after all, it had ended the career of the famed singer Lady Stoneheart, whose voice was never the same after the debut performance of the opera. Afterwards, the famed soprano’s voice was a broken feathered thing, and the singer had silently raged back into obscurity, disappearing into the historical annals of opera. Consequently, the opera – a tale of love, revenge and heartbreak – was rarely performed, and hadn’t been produced in more than twenty years.

No, this piece would not break her – the singer knew her own voice, the voice of the rare falcon soprano: its depth, the heights it could reach, and she climbed the notes steadily, as if hiking a mountain, and when it was time to stand on the brink of the cliff and look down, she did. And when it came time to jump off the cliff and leap from the low note to the high one in a split second, she did not hesitate and did so completely without fear. Yet she did not fall; instead she flew with the music, which buoyed her up like the wind. The words she sang spoke of lost love and longing – the words kept a part of her grounded and left the core of her intact.

The last note that left her throat seemed to be suspended in the air – a pure, crystalline thing of beauty that lingered and slowly faded into silence. She was elated, she felt the love of the crowd seep into her, their energy, their excitement. She was beyond herself, not Brienne Tarth, but a vessel of voice, of music. She felt at once in tune with the universe. She felt acutely the reason for her being, her existence: to sing, and to sing well.

When the performance ended, the audience immediately rose to their feet and a deafening roar hit her with the force of a victorious storm. The applause surrounded her and twirled brightly all around her. The formally dressed men in their somber evening jackets and women in delicate silk and ruffled taffeta gowns stood up and cheered. Shouts of “Bravo” rang from the heavens of the balcony to the far depths of the theatre. She was blinded by the gas spotlights of the stage.

The red velvet and ornamental gold of the opera house vibrated with an energy that threatened to crumble the roof separating them from the heavens. White roses were thrown at her feet, a nod to her strange distaste for red roses, a fact which was well known, even in Westeros, far away from Essos, where she launched her career. This. This was her first performance on the continent and it was clear that she had arrived. Brienne knew without a doubt that newspaper reviews would be enthusiastic and the house would be packed for every subsequent performance. She had arrived.

She was filled with triumph and allowed herself a wide smile; few people believed she could pull this performance off – the work was too challenging and could never fit a single voice, they said. She was too unattractive to be on stage, they said. But then her whole being was a challenge to opera itself – what would one do with a freakishly tall woman, muscular and ugly as sin? She would never play ingénue roles, or beautiful tragic heroines that were so prevalent in opera. She could never be delicate or weak or in need of protection. Brienne needed to reinvent herself, convince composers and producers one by one with her voice, and create this new persona of the Sapphire Soprano: the bold, daring singer that commanded the stage and left the audience yearning for a taste of her powers. 

Leaving Dorne and Essos was another challenge – would she find success in the heart of opera? Would mainland Westerosi embrace her as the Braavosi and Pentoshi had? Brienne had worked hard for this moment. She’d dreamed of returning to King’s Landing to prove to the world that she was something of worth in the world, the place that had rejected her and blacklisted her like a bit of old refuse.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

In her dressing room, she stared into the long mirror and thought about the illusions that made up her present life. On the stage, her height and size were magnificent. She was the Maid and the Warrior, a goddess in the flesh. Her face had so many layers of makeup – kohl around her eyes, red lips, jewels glued on her cheeks – that she looked like a different person altogether. From the distance of the stage, she was a perfect, celestial being. In her makeup and costume, she was the Sapphire Soprano, Opera star of the late 19th century, larger than life, beautiful, untouchable. She was a sky bright with future.

Yet after the performance and alone in her dressing room, Brienne thought she resembled a fake thing that was only playing dress up in a deluded world. Her dressing room was filled with bouquets of flowers from admirers – but admirers of the Sapphire Soprano, not Brienne Tarth, she thought wryly. The scent of lilies and carnations and roses of every colour but red was nearly overwhelming, but she liked seeing them nonetheless. No one would have given Brienne Tarth flowers, but seeing the blossoms made her feel like she’d accomplished something, even if they were for an imaginary woman who did not really exist.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. She frowned; she left specific instructions not to disturb her after a performance. After singing she always needed time alone to come down from the heights, to shed her persona, to come back to herself as plain old Brienne. She ignored the sound. Yet the knocking was persistent, growing even louder. She grumbled, feeling annoyance rise in her. 

“What is it?” she said impatiently, throwing open the door. “I left specific instructions not to be disturbed –”

Words caught in her throat at the sight of the tall, golden man before her. He was immaculately dressed in a navy blue evening jacket that was perfectly tailored to his lean and muscular form. He looked like he stepped out of a Romantic era painting. His face was all acute angles, strong jaw and nose, sharp cheekbones, and emerald, almost feline eyes. His hair had grown down to his shoulders, the curls loose and wild. He was beautiful, his face and form as if created by the gods themselves. More alarmingly, he looked exactly like she remembered, but somehow even more handsome than in her memory.

She was speechless. He grinned, revealing dimples. His smile set off a pang of memory and longing in her.

“My apologies, Brienne. Or should I call you Sapphire now?” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. She heard the sharp turn of the lock. Her heart pounded.

“Jaime,” she breathed. He took her hand and kissed it, lips warm and soft; the sensation made her want to close her eyes and melt onto the floor. Memories sparked and simmered at the feeling of his lips on her skin.

“Rumor is, you refuse to see anyone after a performance, not your admirers, not the press, not even your manager. Good thing people still fall for a famous name.” He stepped toward her still, his sharp gaze examining her from head to toe. “I hardly recognized you on stage. You looked so different.”

“Make-up and costume really do perform miracles,” she replied mildly, trying to settle the nerves that suddenly made itself known in her chest. Her pulse raced under her skin. She pulled off the intricate silver wig that she wore while performing, revealing her thin, straw-like hair that was pinned closely to her head. She supposed he would see her as she was now, stripped of the glamour of the stage.

He walked around the room, reminding her of a stalking beast. His eyes were both excited and sharply observant of her and her surroundings. 

“You were brilliant tonight – your voice has grown stronger and I can tell you’ve mastered your instrument.” He gave her a soft smile. His eyes glowed, his face eager and pleased. His restless energy clawed at her.

Brienne felt all too slow, at a loss for words. She felt like she was in one of her dreams, surrounded by people, but unable to speak. She felt she just needed to concentrate, but the sight of the beautiful man before her did her no favours. Was she hallucinating? She had to wonder. Was he a spirit come to torment her at long last?

“At first, I didn’t know that you were coming; of course, I’d heard of the Sapphire Soprano, the sensation from Essos, and was curious to witness this import, who was said to sing like an angel. How surprised I was to hear the same voice that has haunted my dreams for some five years.” He stepped toward her now, so close that she could feel the heat from his body. His sharp eyes roamed her face. Her breath caught, almost dizzy from the nearness of him. She felt she needed to step back, but she was frozen on the spot.

“In fact, if it weren’t for your voice, I nearly wouldn’t have recognized you.” His thumb grazed over her lips, smearing her crimson lipstick. “On stage, you seem so changed from the Brienne Tarth I used to know.”

His touch was unexpected and the heat of it made her hold her breath. He looked at her as if he could still read her, his green eyes greedily roaming her face. He was being presumptuous; why was he touching her? It suddenly made her angry, and finally she found words.

“You have no right to barge in here, as if, as if –”

“As if we have unfinished business?” He looked at her with a strange bitterness. “You left me, as I recall. You gave me your innocence one night and you left me, disappearing to god knows where.”

“Jaime, you know I had my reasons,” She turned away from him, angry and also ashamed; she had left him, but what choice did she have? “You were with Cersei, she needed you. I knew I was a mere distraction.”

He huffed in protest. 

She moved away and sat in front of her vanity table and started to smear on a thick layer of white cream on her face. Black and red bled out on her skin. She could see the face of “Sapphire” dissolve in front of her eyes as she started to wipe off her face paint with a soft cotton cloth. Jaime’s reflection loomed behind her like a shadow.

“I looked for you everywhere,” Jaime said, his eyes sad and faraway. “I went to your rooms, searched the school. In the end, Catelyn Stark had to tell me that you’d gotten on a ship somewhere, with no plans to return.”

She refused to feel guilty about how she left all those years ago. She had been all of eighteen, a mere girl, struggling and confused and heartbroken, her dreams completely shattered. During that time, it was as if the universe conspired together to shake the foundations of her existence. Five years ago, a part of her had stupidly believed that Jaime could love her, that perhaps they had a small future ahead of them. But she knew on that fateful night that he would never love her, for his heart fully belonged to another, even if he had bedded her that one time. Even when she allowed him to bed her. She had been devastated when he didn’t return, but she was very much resigned; it was hardly a surprise that another person would leave her. Nevertheless, thinking about the past made her want to weep. She did not want ghosts on this night. She did not return to King’s Landing to revisit the past.

She wiped her face clean, and saw that the person that stared back at her was no longer the famous soprano with her glamorous smile, but plain, ugly, mismatched Brienne, still pale and freckled. Too large and too tall. She removed the pins from her hair, one by one, until the long, lank locks fell lifelessly around her shoulders and down her back. As soon as she changed, the illusion would completely dissolve. She stood up, wanting to run away but not wanting him to know that he still affected her so.

He grabbed her arm as she turned. His touch was warm and insistent. “You’re not going to say anything? You want to run away again?” He was stroking her skin now, sending shivers up and down her entire arm.

She stared at him, half-angry at his devastating beauty, the upward quirk of his mouth both infuriating and inviting. Even though it had been years, she remembered vividly the warm press of his lips on hers, his open mouthed kisses on her skin. His hand squeezed her arm insistently and an echo of desire rose inside her. He seemed more powerful now than he’d ever been. How could he still affect her after all this time?

“Jaime,” she said, her voice deflated. She was already tired of resisting. She longed to press her hand against his shoulders and feel the firm muscles there. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

Jaime leaned closer, his eyes darkening. His left hand grabbed her hip, making her gasp. His other hand caressed her cheek, ever so gently, as he ran his fingers through the mess of her fine blond hair.

“I wanted to see you again.” He sighed, his expression one of longing. His face was closer now, their foreheads almost touching. “I missed you.” The sentence was a warm exhale, and she felt the heat of his breath on her skin. “I thought of you all the time.”

She could tell that he was inhaling her scent, as he closed his eyes. Brienne felt that familiar pull that had drawn them together so long ago. She thought of the years in Braavos without him, the need for her to forget him warring with her desire to remember his every glance and every touch. Their one night of union when she thought that he was finally hers. The one night when she allowed herself to want him fully, how she allowed herself to want him that one time, how a small part of her had _hoped_.

There still existed the pull that made her want to touch him and draw him into her. Whatever that attracted them together five years ago was still there. Since that time, she had learned that there existed men who were attracted to her unusual looks, yet Jaime was the only man who made her feel completely wanted and to whom she had wholly given her heart and herself. It had been too long since anyone touched her like that, wanted her like he did now. She could no longer resist. She did not want to resist.

Brienne was the one to bridge the distance between them as she took a step forward and pulled the lapels of his jacket toward her. His lips were warm and soft and he let out a surprised moan and kissed her back, hard and full of wanting. He darted his tongue along her lower lip and she opened her mouth to deepen their kisses. Her whole body felt it was spiraling into a strange and familiar pleasure.

Suddenly their bodies met and she felt hands at her waist pulling her almost roughly against him, and the costume she was wearing, a corseted, ruffled black silk thing with what layers of petticoats underneath, seemed like too much between them. His breath grew faster as he licked and kissed up and down her long neck, making her feel lightheaded and almost swooning. The time, gods, all those years, fell away.

“Brienne, Brienne,” Jaime murmured softly into her neck. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this. How much I’ve wanted this. How much I’ve wanted to taste you.” He pulled down the wide collar of her gown and bodice to reveal a breast, and when his lips touched her nipple, she keened and a whimper escaped her throat. She felt as if she were pleasantly drowning, the nips of his mouth dragging her sharply into pleasure.

“Stop – stop talking –” She could not bear words, she wanted just to be lost in the press of his body, the feel of his lips. His mouth was hot and eager at her breasts.

Her hands – she allowed them free reign to touch him and to roam, just as she’d wanted to since he appeared in her doorway. She felt the solidity of his chest, the flexed muscles of his back under the palms. She was still surprised to feel him hard against her hip, his cock insistent even through the layers of her skirts. He was moaning into her neck. She let out a shocked squeak when he lifted her up onto the vanity, the movement knocking over her glass jars and rattling bottles of creams and lotions. He knelt down and slowly pulled up her skirts, kissing up her long legs. He looked up at her, the pupils of his eyes large and dark, his lips moist with desire.

“Is this alright?” The sight of Jaime kneeling before her, her skirts hitched up, made her speechless. His clutch on her thighs was hard and desperate, and all she could do was nod, awash and be transported by his touches and kisses on the softest parts of her skin. With a rough jerk, he untied and pulled down her silk drawers, freeing it from her corset. When his lips touched her warm core, she cried out, and she cried out even more when she felt his tongue lick her up and down before settling softly on her sensitive nub. Soft little gasps were escaping from her throat involuntarily as he flicked his tongue. She was overcome with a snaking heat pooling and dripping down her thighs. His hands gripped her hips, her ass, and Jaime moaned into her as he intensified his sucking and entered her with his fingers. On and on it went, and she felt the intense pressure building so much that she could barely remember to breathe. Soon she was grinding against his face, all reservations gone, crying out, utterly lost. Jaime devoured her and the pressure built and built until she crested with a loud moan, surging and wild with pleasure. 

“Gods.” Her legs were shaking, her cunt still vibrating from her release. He roughly wiped his face on his sleeve, stood up, and kissed her passionately; she tasted herself on his lips and tongue and it drove her mad. She wanted to make him feel the same, she wanted to feel his pleasure. She reached out and pressed his bulge, squeezing the thick ridge of his manhood through his trousers. He groaned, his head collapsing on her shoulder. She started to unbutton his pants.

“Brienne,” he groaned, his hips canting toward her. “We don’t have to.”

She kissed him to stop his words, desperate to have him once again. His cock felt warm and thick and hard in her hand. Despite his words, he was thrusting desperately into her grip. She hadn’t wanted or needed anything so much.

“I want to. I want you inside me, Jaime.” 

He groaned loudly at her words and pushed himself inside her with little fanfare, making her gasp. The sensation of him filling her up as he sheathed himself fully inside her was almost unbearable, but she wanted more. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper into her. Jaime moaned her name as he started to move, his hips thrusting powerfully, making her vanity table and the mirror behind her shake. It seemed to her that the whole world might collapse with their thrusts. And soon they were fucking, his hips snapping hard and meeting the corresponding movements of her hips. She felt filled, complete, pieces inside herself coming together. She kissed him desperately, wanting to devour him. Jaime was groaning into her mouth and he was thrusting harder into her until his movements stuttered, and he gave a wild, low groan, swelling and releasing inside her. His body collapsed into her, shuddering, panting, his head falling on her shoulder. She hadn’t come again – it all happened too quickly, but she felt wholly satisfied and oddly powerful to know that she made him feel this way that he reacted to her with such passion. 

Gods, she had to admit to herself that she missed him, that she had regretted leaving as she did, hardly giving a chance for the two of them.

He pulled out, staining his seed on her thighs. She moved away, feeling suddenly awkward, but he pulled her close and kissed her. 

“Brienne. That was incredible.” His breath tickled her ear. His smile was relaxed, his face fond. It nearly broke her heart again to look at him. He held her left hand.

They were silent while they quickly cleaned up with cloths and rearranged their clothing. Brienne felt she was just waking up from a dream. Her body felt alive, the core of her pleasantly stretched. She was surprised at herself – she had rarely, if ever, lost control like this – but it was undeniable: there was something about Jaime that untethered her even now.

She frowned. “You should go. I need to clean up, go back to the hotel.”

“Let me come with you.” He was much too handsome to look at her in such an affectionate way.

“No.” She shook her head. She forced herself to look at him fully. His face flashed hurt and disappointment. The past intruded again. “You should go back to...to Cersei. Did you marry her?”

He suddenly laughed, the sound bitter, his mouth twisted. “You think I’m married? That I would fuck you while I was married? Your opinion of me must be low indeed. Honourless, you must think of me, to come to your dressing room to merely fuck you.”

She stared at him. He sighed, running a hand through his golden hair. “Jaime-”

“You’re right. I am honourless, since I continued on with my cousin even after she married King Robert Baratheon.” He paused suddenly, his eyes piercing. He opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, but stopped.

“But she’s free now, I’m sure with her own estate, free to do as she likes. You have not married her? I thought….” Brienne asked softly. She wouldn’t have known, of course. When she arrived in Braavos and made a new life for herself, she never sought out news about the Lannisters, never wanted to. Memories of that family – of him – were much too painful. It was easy to think that Jaime returned to the dowager Queen and remained with her, since they were both unencumbered.

He shook his head. “Cersei and I – haven’t been together for years now, Brienne. I finally learned my lesson. Far too late, of course.”

Her heart quivered despite the protestations she heard in her head. It would take very little to reignite that kindling of hope inside her. And a part of her continued to warn her about Jaime – how tempting he was, how good he was at making her believe him. He was all too intoxicating. And dangerous.

His face softened as he looked at her. His hands touched her neck, her cheek. “I didn’t come here to – I didn’t mean for this to happen so soon – I wanted to ask you for permission to woo you, Brienne. My angel.” He looked down, shyly. “Now that you have returned, I want us to try to be together. I want to take you to dinner, and the theatre, the park, all the things we never got to do the first time. I came here to ask you to give us a chance. The chance we never had.”

It was too much. She sunk herself down to the divan. She felt confused and sad, unable to fully understand Jaime’s words. How could he have thought that they would have another chance, when just being with him for one night thoroughly broke her the first time? When she was so scared of what her heart could do that she ran away? How she could trust herself when she was around him?

“Brienne.” His hand was gently stroking her hair, a gesture of affection that was now unbearable, despite their recent embrace.

“I can’t.” Brienne said finally, turning fully to him. Her chin wobbled with emotion, and she knew her eyes were large and glistening.

He looked at her, aghast.

“Jaime, please go.” Her voice was firm but determined.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, pleading.

“Please. Go.” 

He sighed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his card, placing it on the seat beside her. “Brienne. My new residence. Call on me. Please.”

She stared at the card, but said nothing as he turned away. When she heard the door close, the tears that had been threatening fell from her eyes. She wept into the embroidered cushions, her entire body sliding to the floor, the black silks of her costume pooling all around her like a nest of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The falcon soprano is a real thing, named after [Cornélie Falcon](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corn%C3%A9lie_Falcon) , who was a brilliant star with this unusual register. She had an exceptionally short career, having retired at 23 after losing her singing voice.


	2. Two: The Circus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about Brienne's life in this chapter.
> 
> Trigger warning: there is a brief, non-graphic scene of dubious consent, underage sexual assault at the end of the first section. 
> 
> Also, the final scenes of the chapter I'm sure some will hate (but I personally really love, lol).

She had a talent for running away. Starting a new life and forging a new identity were skills she’d had to learn to survive.

It wasn’t like that in the beginning.

In the beginning, she had a family. She had a home. She had her island. She had a father and mother, an older brother and twin younger sisters on their large estate on the remote island of Tarth. Her father had been Lord Evenstar and laid very soft reigns on his children, indulging their interests and fostering talents and intellect, even in his girls. Even so, Brienne was a particularly willful and stubborn child, her parents never comprehending who she was and how she wanted to be. Brienne knew she was different, as all the boys pointed out, but she didn’t care. She serenaded their horses and cattle with her voice, singing all of the country ballads and ancient songs that everyone on Tarth knew. She loved riding and she loved singing, and spent all of her free time exploring the island, singing with the birds, to the trees and streams and meadows as she passed them. Her mother and her septa tried her best to teach her how to be a lady, but the sewing, cooking, and comportment were well beyond Brienne’s ability and interest. The only formal education she tolerated aside from the tutors was the piano lessons from Mr. Goodwin. Brienne lived for music.

War arrived on Tarth from the mainland when she was fifteen, vicious and cruel. In the war to defend the crown, the Targaryens came and rained fire and blood, as the soldiers set trees and farms ablaze with green and orange fires, killed the sheep and cattle, so the population would have no food. Many men died defending their Tarth homeland, and the rest of the population starved to death or caught disease or fever and died. Such was the fate of her own family.

At first, her eight-year-old sisters and mother perished from the agues, shivering, sweating and unbearably warm, their breaths clattering in their chests as they drew their final breaths. Her seventeen-year-old brother Galadon, the strongest of them all, was senselessly killed in an argument with a Targaryen soldier, shot in the gut and left to bleed to death on the road like an animal. Brienne had found him sprawled on the road just outside their home when he hadn’t returned, but he had already been dead for hours, his body stiff and cold, this blood dark and congealed on the dirt underneath his body. Brienne thought that the sight of her large, strong father weeping over the lifeless body of his son was even more painful than her discovering him herself. His hulking form seemed to just crumble before her eyes.

Her father fought until he was injured and bedridden, starving like all the rest of them. Though in the end, it seemed he simply died of exhaustion and grief. The fighting was over, and Tarth conquered. The Evenstar faded away, refusing to eat the meagre food that they had after witnessing his family perish one by one. At that point, the servants left to fight or to be with their families in the chaos.

In his final days, Selwyn Tarth did not even recognize Brienne; instead, he spoke of her as if she too had died, as if she were a complete stranger perched over his bed. He was in a whole other world, one that even Brienne could not follow. When he finally drew his last breaths and died, she had to dig her father’s grave on her own: a massive hole to fit his nearly seven-foot frame. He was unexpectedly light when she carried him to his resting place. 

When her father passed, there was nothing else to do but go. She gathered all the money and valuables she could find. She packed clothes, most of them those of Galadon. She took the deed to the estate and hid it in her waistcoat. She sold their remaining horses and farm equipment to the Targaryen lords for a mere pittance – nevertheless a sizeable amount for her. She did not want to remain on the farm, where all her family had died. She vowed never to set foot on Tarth again and hacked off her long yellow hair above her ears with her mother’s sewing scissors. She dressed in her brother’s clothes and rode their one remaining horse to the harbour, sold the animal, and booked a one-way passage to King’s Landing.

The first day was terrible. The journey was delayed several hours and she arrived at port past midnight. It was so cold that she could see fog on her breath. Winter was in the air. She had dressed in one of her finest day gowns in order to make an impression at a boarding house or a potential employer. Not knowing where to go, she walked through the cobbled roads of King’s Landing, hoping to find a clean and safe boarding house or inn to stay in for the night. Instead, she was accosted one after the other by crazed, drunk men who insulted her, called her ugly, yet propositioned her anyway, muttering how “all cunts were the same in the dark.” 

One time, a group of men surrounded her, leering and jeering, and they had started to pull at her clothes, and she felt terrified. She had almost taken out her dagger that she had brought from home to attack them, when a man stopped them with a shout.

He told her he was a police officer, an older man in his late fifties; he seemed kind. When he learned that she was all alone, he decided to bring her home. He offered her work as housekeeper, telling her his wife died some months ago and he needed someone to take care of the house and him. Brienne felt pity for the man, because he seemed desperately lonely. Otherwise, she did not feel much of anything; she barely remembered his name or what he looked like. She was glad to get out of the freezing cold.

When it came time for bed, he suddenly kissed her neck and groped her through her clothes. He led her to his small, creaky bed. Brienne felt paralyzed – she was sure she could have pushed him away and punched him, but she just lay there, feeling absolutely nothing, not even fear, and allowed him to fondle her through her clothes. She was too paralyzed to protest. She had the vague relief that at least he didn’t try to undress her or put his cock into her. As he rutted against her hip pathetically, he told her all of his miseries, how his wife died, along with their child in her belly, how lonely he was, how much he wanted a woman in his life. When he grunted into her shoulder and released in his pants, Brienne felt a mixture of revulsion and pity. He kissed her on the cheek and turned away to sleep, still in his day clothes. She was exhausted, overwhelmed and soon, she too, fell into a fitful sleep. 

In the morning, the man looked guilty and gave her a sad look, and asked her to marry him. Brienne shook herself out of her stupor enough to say no. He looked at her, grateful and pale, and pressed a significant amount of money into her palm. He asked her to return if she ever changed her mind, giving her his card. Brienne took the money – she needed it, in any case – dressed in Galadon’s clothes and left, walking in the direction of the centre of town. She ripped the man’s card to pieces and tossed the pieces into the wind, having no intention of seeing him ever again, a sudden anger upon her. She thought she should have punched him and was furious at herself for not fighting back. Still, she felt herself lucky that she hadn’t undergone worse.

She wondered through the countryside and through the town. She was aimless, not really knowing how she was going to establish her new life.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

She joined a circus. 

Brienne stumbled upon the Dornish troupe one night in the outskirts of the city, attracted by the lights of the numerous lanterns and the sight of the gold and white tent. On impulse, she bought a ticket with the money she was supposed to have used for her supper and stepped into the realm of magic. She was stunned by the performers – acrobats who jumped from up high and did somersaults and swung from one trapeze, catching each other by their ankles and hands; women in skintight costumes who were able to contort themselves into knots; men who were able to tumble on the floor with amazing speed. The dashing ringmaster and his tricks with his whips. The lion tamer with his brood of gentle looking beasts. Looking up and all around her, hearing the lilting music, Brienne, for the first time since the wars, was able to forget her troubles. 

Yet that night something went terribly wrong. She would look back on this night as the hand of fate again pulling out a string in the tapestry of the world. The slim, beautiful acrobatic horsewoman had attempted to jump with her horse through a ring of fire, but something strange happened: the horse spooked and reared up, throwing the young woman high into the air, where she landed on the edge of the stage, her legs bent in an unnatural position under her collapsed form. The audience gasped and screamed and stared and they were eventually ushered out. Brienne, however, rushed to the woman’s aid as the other circus performers screamed and stood frozen.

Nellie, the equestrienne, was taken to the hospital. However, it was clear that she would never return to the circus, according to the grey-haired Maester who was summoned by the troupe. A tall, darkly handsome man dressed in the gold robes of the Dornish ringmaster turned to Brienne, a furrow in his brow but his dark eyes full of curiosity.

“And who might you be, here amongst us?” His voice was velvety and rich, his leather whip coiled at his hip.

The large brute of a man with a scarred face who helped her with the injured woman, spoke. “This young man came to help Nellie when all of these other twats froze in fear like little girls.”

The handsome man smiled at her. “Ah, but Sandor, this one is not a man at all, but a young woman. Am I right?”

Brienne nodded, twisting her hands and looking down. The ringmaster laughed. “A good disguise, and one that would have worked if not for those beautiful blue eyes of yours.”

“How old are you, child?” An alluring woman with dark curly hair and light brown skin approached, her voice soft and welcoming.

“Fifteen.”

The woman gently took off Brienne’s cap and stroked her hair lightly. “And where is your family?”

Brienne struggled to speak, willing her eyes to stay dry. “Dead. All dead.”

Pairs of eyes looked at her silently

“Gods. Fuck the wars. You’ll be looking for work, then?” The gruff man known as Sandor asked. “You look strong enough to help out with mucking manure or setting up the tents.”

The woman made a disapproving noise. “But she’s just a girl! Surely she can do something else.”

“I’m plenty strong,” Brienne declared suddenly, not wanting to squander this chance for employment and housing. She had the sudden and wild desire to join them.

The Dornishman chuckled. “I’m sure you are.” He walked up to her and searched her face. “Do you have any talents? We are apparently short an equestrienne – can you ride and do any tricks on horseback?”

Brienne nodded eagerly, inspiration striking her. “I can ride like the wind, and jump. And I sing.”

He tilted his head, curious. “Go on.” The man smiled encouragingly. “Sing.”

Brienne stood up. She was nervous, but told herself to be brave. She closed her eyes and imagined herself on the cliffs of Tarth, where she often sang to the roaring storms. She opened her mouth, and sang a sad Tarthian ballad. She felt the notes leave her body and weave sinuously in the air.

The faces around her were enraptured. When she finished, even the immense Sandor had tears in his eyes. The woman was weeping openly, while the handsome man’s smile was wistful and sad.

“I think you’ve just made us a new act,” the man said, smiling at her and shaking his head in disbelief.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Her life changed again when she joined the troupe. She was given the caravan that formerly belonged to the injured equestrienne, and began to adjust to a peripatetic way of life. She worked with Sandor on the horses, and trained on showmanship with Oberyn, the ringmaster who had hired her. She sat quietly with outside the cage of tame lions, watching them laze and sleep. Ros fussed over her and passed along bars of rich, lavender soap to her. Ellaria, Oberyn’s paramour and one of the acrobats, taught her how to dress and wear makeup. She was beautiful and dark-haired, light on her feet and grounded in promising sensuality at the same time.

Ellaria had invited her to the large caravan she shared with Oberyn with work on her presentation in the act.

“I know I’m not pretty, nor is my face meant to be on the stage –” Brienne began, self-conscious. She felt monstrous in contrast with the petite brunette. She was half a head taller than Oberyn, which made her feel even more awkward.

Ellaria tutted, shaking her head. She held Brienne’s face in both of her hands and stared, her expression thoughtful.

“Listen. You’re not a beauty, I’m sure you’ve been told that all your life,” she said, while Brienne nodded in reply. “But you have the most beautiful blue eyes, pale luminous skin, and absurdly long legs. We can work with that. Much of what people call beautiful is a mere trick of the mind. Beauty, especially the kind on stage, is very much an illusion. This you will soon know.”

Ellaria started brushing out her hair. “You’ll need to grow your hair. But I think it’ll do to present you as an innocent. You have a purity in you that is very rare. It positively radiates off of you.”

“Now, we’ll pin your hair back. Put you in a simple, white shirt and breeches, give you enough makeup so your eyes will glow. Maybe a smudge of lip rouge to give you some colour.” Ellaria smiled, looking at her kindly. Oberyn, who had been lounging in the corner gazing at them laconically, moved closer. His gait was fluid and spoke of a powerful, coiled energy.

He took both her hands in his and grinned charmingly. “We don’t have anyone like you here. You’ll be our innocent. Let’s see...we’ll call you the Blue Angel, for the incredible blue of your eyes.”

So The Blue Angel she became. Posters of her were printed, making her look much more impressive looking than she really was. She worked and trained hard with Sandor and Oberyn to create an act. The horses themselves were magnificent, easy to ride and already well trained. More importantly, the creatures were big enough to work with Brienne’s large frame; it was fortunate that she was lean and muscular, barely any fat on her. She trusted her body and her voice. As she watched the performance in the first week, observing everything from the box office to the advertising, to the hectic activities of the backstage, to the acts themselves and the responses of the audience, she learned that she needed to present a story and sell it to the public. The people who came to their shows wanted to escape their harsh, every day worlds and be transported into a fantasy where all things were possible. She learned to divorce the young girl named Brienne Tarth, who was alone and a nobody, from the haunting presence of The Blue Angel, who arrived on horseback and sang songs of heartbreak without accompaniment, wetting every eye in the audience. The Blue Angel was bold and fearless, all the things Brienne wanted to be.

Days turned to weeks, into months and into years. She grew even taller and broader, much to her horror. Yet Brienne felt fortunate to have encountered the circus when she had nearly run out of money, and not having any luck finding employment. Before she found the circus, she had no notion of what to do; she had no social connections, no family to support her. She was not educated enough to be a governess, nor was she respectful enough to marry well. But the circus gave her a new life: a new family, money and an independence was stubbornly instilled in her.

Over the two and a half years she had been with the circus, she had travelled all over Westeros, from Winterfell in the North, to Lannisport in the East, and the Stormlands and even to Dorne, where the troupe settled for the winter off season. In that time, Brienne had not gotten any prettier, but she was able to transform on the stage into a whole new creature that was simply adored by the audience. Sandor had taught her new jumps. She learned acrobatic tumbles that she did on the horses, and her show became more exciting with every season. Despite the tricks and tumbling, the showstopper was always her singing, in particular her trademark song that began low and rumbling, and rose to heartbreakingly pure, high notes that left the audience in tears.

Yet after these years, she had begun to feel restless. Audiences were getting bigger every night, but they also seemed more drunk and out of control, especially the men. What she learned was that some men were cruel, waiting for her to exit her tent and propositioning her or worse. Invariably, when the men saw her up close, they would be revolted by her size and height, and would start to insult her, but at the same time, they would still want to take her and would sometimes try to grab her. It was at this point that either Sandor, or Areo Hotah, the circus Strong Man, would intervene and kick them out. After the first few times, Sandor sat her down and taught her how to kill a man with the dagger she carried on her person.

It was tiresome, dealing with the violent impulses of these men. She also felt a growing yearning to sing more and a waning passion to do tricks on the horses. The only time she had felt connected to the world and completely alive was when she was singing – she felt threads of herself, of Tarth, her family, of this circus wrap around her, making her feel whole. She had no idea what she wanted to do when she first left her island, but now she knew: she wanted to sing.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

They were in King’s Landing for a series of performances over a month-long period – it was their biggest stop and was usually a crucial time for the troupe in terms of building an audience and making money. It was Brienne’s eighteenth nameday and Oberyn and Ellaria had taken her to the opera; she had never been, and her reaction to the ornate red and gold theatre alone was one of awe. She had never been in a place so magnificent and opulent; Brienne felt like she stepped inside a palace. Even though they sat in the balcony, quite far back from the stage, the music still astonished her and enveloped her soul. As soon as the curtains opened and the orchestra started to play, she was transfixed. The singers on stage seemed to have resonant, booming voices that echoed powerfully in the theatres. Stories poured out of their songs, emotions in their gestures.

Most of all, Brienne was transfixed by the brown-haired soprano, who was beautiful and tiny but had a lovely, high voice that was filled with feeling. The story of the opera was familiar: a young woman, betrayed by her lover, flings herself into the river, all too late for the lover to realize that he loved her and only her. By the end of it, Brienne was both elated and in tears from the tragedy of the thing. She also knew she wanted, somehow, to be on that stage singing one day.

Oberyn and Ellaria exchanged amused glances when they observed how happy she was. 

“Did you enjoy that, dear Brienne?” Ellaria asked, as they strolled arm in arm through late night streets of the city.

She nodded vigorously. “It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard and seen!”

Oberyn, coming up beside her, chuckled. “Even more beautiful than our own circus, Brienne? I’m wounded.”

Brienne blushed. “Oh, no, of course not –”

“Dear girl, Oberyn is just teasing.” The woman squeezed her arm comfortingly. “We’re both glad that you enjoyed it. The first time at the opera is always special.”

“Indeed, I am. I’m a terrible tease. Forgive me.” He bowed, smiling at her softly, his dark eyes warm. “But if you are interested in expanding your musical repertoire, I can help you learn some of these operatic songs. With your voice, it would be very special. You have a unique talent, dear girl.”

The suggestion thrilled her. The idea that she would be able to learn some of these beautiful songs made her happy. She nodded. “Yes, Oberyn, I would like that very much. Thank you.”

“Come now, enough work talk. Tonight’s a special night, and it’s not yet over.” Ellaria’s eyes were wide and her face was very beautiful in the night.

They had finally returned to the circus site. Before she turned to her own caravan, she hugged Ellaria and murmured, “Thank you both, for such a wonderful birthday.” She ended the hug and Oberyn leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. 

“Happy birthday, dearest girl.” He squeezed her waist.

Brienne’s cheeks grew warm.

Ellaria’s dark eyes glittered with mirth. “Won’t you come into our tent? The night is yet young, and I’m sure it might be nice to have a change in scenery from your cramped little caravan.” 

For long stints like they were doing in King’s Landing, some of the performers had set up spacious tents and furnished it luxuriously. Oberyn and Ellaria, being the ringmaster and star of the show, had a very lovely tent indeed, large enough to rival a well-appointed apartment in the city. Brienne was feeling light, as if she had drunk too many glasses of champagne, and she was far from tired. The music was still thrumming through her, leaving her elated and happy. 

The furnishings inside the tent made her feel like she was in Dorne – colourful knotted carpets, silk cushions on the floor, low tables, a large bed in the midst of it all. The lanterns cast the whole room in a warm, lovely glow. She sat on cushions in between Oberyn and Ellaria. Wine was poured and she drank, savoring the sweetness of the red Dornish vintage, which had been opened especially for her. Oberyn spoke in his low, deep voice about little things – the opera house, the music, the singers. Brienne felt herself relaxing, feeling happiness stretch out before her. She felt Ellaria rub her arms, hold her hands. 

Brienne smiled happily at the both of them. “You’re so lucky that you’ve found one other,” she said, almost sighing. “You love each other so much, I can tell.”

“And we love you, dear, sweet Brienne,” Ellaria murmured, giving her hand a kiss.

“I don’t know what I would have ended up doing if you hadn’t hired me,” Brienne said, imagining herself three years ago, skinny, starving, impoverished and grieving. She imagined that a life of degradation and servitude had awaited her if she hadn’t stumbled on the circus. “Thank you.”

“Now, now,” Oberyn said soothingly, stroking her arm up and down. “You proved yourself that very first day. All we did was make the best business decision of our lives.” She felt a soft kiss on her cheek and could smell the warm spicy cinnamon scent of Ellaria.

“You’re eighteen, Brienne. I wonder if there is something that you want to know about the world?” Ellaria’s soft hands were grazing her neck now, making her shiver. 

She could not help but stare that their warm, amber-hued beauty.

“The ways of love, perhaps?” Oberyn suggested, lightly touching her knee and thigh.

Brienne looked confusedly from Oberyn to Ellaria, feeling both warm and filled with a vague longing. She remembered the old man on her first day on the mainland, his grunts, his desperate kisses. She remembered the taunts of drunk men who wanted to insult her and fuck her. She had overheard Oberyn and Ellaria’s moans and cries at night sometimes, not to mention the other performers who kissed and slept with whomever they liked. How they all spoke of love and sex in the same breath, without any shame, separated and apart from the bounds of morality and society that lay outside their circus. The women in the circus were ruined in the eyes of society; but to Brienne, they had a freedom that she did not see in the fine ladies with their tight corsets and pinched, pale faces. Seeing desire all around her, knowing they actively resisted moral codes in the ways women should act, all this made her core throb and her whole being filled with a physical longing. She knew that love could be wonderful. Yes. She wanted something different to replace those memories of those strange men, something better. 

“Love...yes,” Brienne heard herself say softly. 

Oberyn traced her jaw lightly with his finger, his head tilted and expression curious. “Are you as innocent as The Blue Angel, Brienne? Or was there a sweetheart back home that you loved and left behind?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not.”

“Of course not?” Ellaria raised an eyebrow.

“Look at me. I’m plain and the boys mocked me more than anything else.” She bit her lip. “There was the old man, when I first arrived in King’s Landing. I first thought he was kind. He offered me a roof over my head for the night. But he was just lonely. He touched me a little, rubbed his thing all over me. I let him. It – it – wasn’t...pleasant. But I let him….”

Ellaria’s hand felt warm holding her hand. “Dear girl,” she said softly.

“Men can be brutes, even the so-called kind ones,” Oberyn said darkly. “You must not let anyone take what you won’t freely give, Brienne. Even with us.”

Brienne nodded. She was drawn to Oberyn’s face, his expressive dark eyes, his tanned skin, the elegant shape of his nose. He was so handsome. Without even thinking, she reached up and touched his angular jaw, tracing his skin as he was doing to her. He hitched a breath.

“But you are curious, hmmm? About what pleasure can feel like.” Oberyn’s thumb caressed her overly plump bottom lip.

Brienne nodded, and managed to stammer, “Yes – yes.” She had not thought about what might happen, that the two of them were beside her, both looking at her as if she were the most desirable person in the world. No one had ever looked at her like she was sweet before, like they wanted to taste her.

“We want to show you that you are desirable, Brienne,” Ellaria purred in her ear.

“You are meant to be loved, dear one,” Oberyn added, his fingers gently stroking her hair.

She felt Ellaria’s arms draw her into a warm embrace, while she became more and more drawn to Oberyn’s dark, kind eyes as his face drew closer. When his lips touched hers, she felt warm all over, as if a small fire had been set inside her. This was – she had never been truly kissed before, and his lips made her tingle all over. Brienne gave a low moan as she felt his tongue touch hers as she opened her mouth. He tasted like wine and cinnamon. She felt clumsy but tried to kiss him back as she felt other kisses on her neck, and hands touch her waist and back and breasts. A callused hand lifted her skirts and lightly traced the length of her legs. Brienne felt she was floating in the most pleasant ocean, a dizzying singing in her ears.

Oberyn groaned into her mouth, then kissed her neck, making her keen. Ellaria took her lips now, and her kisses were soft and fragrant, reminding her blooming forests in the heart of summer. Brienne’s head spun; she could hardly comprehend what was happening. The fact she was kissing a woman – while the woman’s male lover was kissing Brienne’s neck and touching her – that both of them _wanted_ her – was overwhelming. She felt like an incandescent thing between them. A special, brilliant being.

Suddenly fingers were unbuttoning her dress and she felt air on her bare skin, the loosening of her bodice and her stays. “Oh,” she murmured, her fingers too clumsy to help him.

“Beautiful,” she heard Oberyn murmur, as he lowered his mouth to her breast. 

Ellaria made a noise of agreement as her lips touched Brienne’s other breast. Gods, this was – Brienne could not believe it, but she felt herself arching toward them and crying out as she felt her nipples harden and desire grow lower down her belly. Surely this was perverted, abnormal? Any moral reservations she may have had were swiftly overridden by Oberyn’s blistering touches and Ellaria’s sensuous kisses.

Hands were roaming up her bare thighs and she gasped when they cupped her mound. Brienne opened her eyes wide and saw Oberyn looking at her, his face soft and full of concern.

“Brienne, is this alright?” His hands reached under her layers and lightly touched her folds and seam. She felt herself becoming wetter and wetter, sparks of desire at his every touch. Brienne could hardly speak and only nodded. She felt her drawers being lowered and removed. She felt breathless with pleasure – her skin trembled and a warmth grew inside her.

“Good,” Ellaria said, kissing her, her tongue delving into her mouth. 

After that, Brienne lost track of who was touching her, kissing her, and who she was kissing back. She was touching hard muscle and soft skin, curves and hard angles and she couldn’t understand how they were making her feel this incredible pleasure and want. Fingers were pressing into her sensitive place, rubbing her there, causing her to writhe and moan. Her breasts were being lavished with licks and kisses. When fingers entered her, Brienne cried out, her hips canting up as they moved in and out of her. 

“Oh, gods –” Brienne managed to say, before Oberyn kissed her hard, his hips – with his hardness – pressing into her.

It was all too much; she felt like her whole body was being ignited. The fingers pumped inside her as her nub was being pressed and rubbed, her nipples were being sucked and her neck was being kissed, and she felt herself rise and rise with pleasure, her hips twisting and writhing, until the core of her overflowed with want and she exploded, her body bursting in hot, liquid pleasure. Man, woman, hands, fingers, tongue, lips – she felt everything ignite her skin. Brienne cried out, and suddenly, her whole body was shuddering in release. 

Oberyn and Ellaria were giving her soothing touches, kisses on her cheeks and neck as she recovered. 

“You’re lovely,” Ellaria said affectionately, looking into her eyes.

Brienne blushed. Oberyn smiled at her roguishly and began to put her back together, fastening her stays, buttoning her dress. He slipped her drawers back on and buttoned the opening. He licked the fingers that had been inside her and closed his eyes at the taste, letting out a moan of pleasure. The sight of him made her quiver.

Brienne looked at both of them, confused. She could see Oberyn’s hardness straining in his breeches, and the want in both of their eyes. 

“But – but – what about you?” Brienne’s voice was disorientated still. She felt perhaps, that she was supposed to do something, give something to them in return. She could barely think.

Oberyn kissed her softly. “Tonight was all about you. Don’t worry about us. It was already a pleasure touching you, Brienne.”

Ellaria stroked her hair. “Happy nameday, Brienne, my sweet.”

Oberyn kissed her softly and drew back. “You know you are welcome to our bed any time. More of this, if you wish. Or if you want to go further.” His voice was low and kind. “We will always want you.”

Brienne nodded. She still felt half-drunk from the events of the night. She had never felt so cared for; no one had made her feel as good in all her life. Yet she was still embarrassed, still disbelieving at what actually just happened. She wanted to return to her caravan and sleep and see if it was all real when she woke up. Perhaps, she mused as her head hit the pillow, she would wake up and find that it was just a summer’s dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously I stole the name The Blue Angel from the 1930 German film!


	3. Three: A Royal Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A special performance.
> 
> Another update this week since is this a short chapter.
> 
> Note: I've made Cersei and Jaime younger than in canon. They are 23. Robert is also younger. Obviously, this story is not very canonical.

The next morning brought news that pushed the previous night’s events out of Brienne’s mind and put the entire circus into a state of disarray. A soberly dressed messenger arrived to inform the group that the next night’s performance was to be a special one – the King and Queen, along with their royal retinue, were to attend, so that night’s performance had to be closed to the public. The whole troupe was set aflutter and immediately set to work, putting out cancellation notices and posters all over town. The crew started cleaning the stage, sweeping errant bits of straw from the walkway, arranging the seats at perfectly precise angles. Performers honed their acts and eliminated any hint of anti-royalist sentiment in their material.

Brienne did not have any real love or hate for King Robert or his new Queen Cersei, only recently married some months ago; as long as they weren’t Targaryens, she did not care much about politics. Over the past three years, she had made herself forget the war. She supposed that it was lucky that the commotion erased any awkwardness that may have come between her, Oberyn, and Ellaria. They were affectionate to her as usual, but Brienne could not help stare that them and blush as she remembered how they touched her and made her feel for the first time.

A jubilant feeling of anticipation was in the air when they turned on the lights and readied for the night’s performance. The circus ring had never looked so magnificent with its gold brocade curtains, the painted backdrops, and shimmering costumes. Everything that could gleam gleamed to a bright shine. When the King and Queen walked in, everyone held their breaths, as there never was a more beautiful couple to set foot on their stage. King Robert was immense and tall, rough and muscular, with a full head of black hair, masculine features and bright blue eyes. His complexion was rosy and he was all smiles, glancing appreciatively at the tent and his surroundings. His Queen, Cersei, was resplendent in a gown of gold and a red and a finely embroidered evening cloak. She was beautiful, with delicate features, sharp green eyes, and slightly thin, red lips. Her hair was intricate, half up with small braids, golden waves cascading down her back. Her figure was perfect, slim yet curvaceous, and rubies were at her delicate throat; however, her expression was rather cold and she looked half bored already.

The royal escort was large, but modest in terms of royal standards. Guards, relatives, courtiers flanked themselves around the royal couple. Beside the Queen sat one of the most gorgeous men Brienne had ever seen – a tall, lean man, blond and green-eyed, with a sharp, slightly crooked nose, high cheekbones and an angular jawline. Brienne thought he resembled the ancient statues presenting ideal male beauty in the art museums that she saw when she first arrived in King’s Landing. She would never have imagined she would see such a paragon in real life.

“That’s the Queen’s cousin, Jaime Lannister. He and the Queen grew up together as brother and sister – they say he’s going to be Lord of Casterly Rock when his father passes,” said Ros, the red-haired tightrope walker who was lovely in her green and gold bejeweled costume. She gave the golden man a lascivious look which she soon transferred to the King. “Gods, the King is handsome, isn’t he?” 

Brienne nodded absentmindedly. There was a remarkable resemblance between the cousins, although she thought that the man’s expression was much warmer than the Queen’s. She saw the handsome man look around and gesture behind him. Soon, a very short man, a dwarf of similar colouring as the cousins, sat beside Jaime Lannister. He was unattractive as the man beside him was attractive, his nose slightly squashed and a knowing look in his eyes. Yet Jaime smiled down fondly at the small man. Queen Cersei stiffened and sent them both a glare that would have stopped an ordinary person in their tracks. However, the two men merely exchanged glances and looked amused, laughing under their breaths. An older man with thinning blond hair sat behind the men, clearing his throat and looking at them pointedly. The small man raised an eyebrow at the handsome man next to him and suppressed a smile.

Brienne had seen the show thousands of times from backstage, but even she would venture that the performance that night was magical – everyone performed their very best, no one missed their marks, and well, if they got fewer laughs because of the stuffiness of the audience, it wasn’t actually their fault, because it was the best show that they had ever put on. 

Brienne felt this strongly in her veins as she and her horse, Sugar, jumped higher, when she did her pirouettes and balancing on the back of her horses, when she lowered to the splits position between two trotting animals, and of course, during her finale consisting of her of standing proudly on her galloping horse while singing her songs. The night seemed extra special, as it seemed all at once that she was singing about her past, her future, and the present; it seemed like her voice extended out into the night, and perhaps reaching out to the heavens beyond. Her notes were clear, a clarion call to the stars. When she finished singing and somersaulted off her grey horse and took a bow, she was met with loud applause. The loudest cheer was surprisingly from the King himself, who clapped loudly and stood up, prompting all around him to stand up and clap as well. Brienne, gave him a gracious smile and curtsied to him.

King Robert gestured for her to approach. Astonished, she looked around to make sure it was really she he was beckoning. She walked forward and knelt before him.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. King Robert was much taller and broader than even her, a veritable God of a man.

“Rise up, Blue Angel,” King Robert boomed, smiling and showing handsome dimples. “That was magnificent. My congratulations on your performance. Bravo to you.”

She stood and nodded. The King fiddled with the lapel of his fine silk jacket. “Approach, Blue Angel.” Brienne tentatively did, overwhelmed by the King’s immense presence. She was bewildered to find herself being handed a brooch of a star made of gold in which a large sapphire was set. The King, even more astonishingly, kissed her hand as he did so. She felt her skin blush a vivid red.

“For your performance tonight, a blue stone for the Blue Angel. I don’t think I’ve been so moved by a singer in all my life, and I have sat through innumerable operas in my day.” With that, he sat back down and nodded at her in dismissal. Brienne curtsied awkwardly and quickly ran off the stage, her heart beating nearly out of her chest.

There was excitement backstage, and squeals and a general atmosphere euphoria, especially when the royal party left. Everyone wanted to look at the King’s gift to her, and everyone lavished her with praise. It was incredible. She did not think that moment was real, and yet in her hand was the small, seven-pointed star with the bright blue stone at its centre, its weight reassuring in her palm.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Brienne wasn’t surprised when she was called into the main tent by Oberyn, amusedly informing her that she had a visitor from last night’s royal party. She brought out the brooch from her caravan, but didn’t bother to change from her breeches and long tunic into a dress. 

She was surprised to find that waiting for her was the short young man who had sat next to the Queen’s handsome cousin. He was impeccably dressed, with his blond and brown curls falling on his forehead in a stylish fashion. As she came closer, she noticed that his eyes were mismatched: one green eye and one black eye. His wry expression was familiar to her from the night before. 

“Please, Miss Tarth, do sit. It would save me from pain in the neck, I think,” he joked, smiling gently at her. “My name is Tyrion Lannister. I had the pleasure of watching the show with the King and Queen last night. You were wonderful, of course, though I think you already know that.”

She sat, suddenly unable to think of a single thing to say at the moment. She reached into her pocket and wordlessly offered him the sapphire brooch. He started and gave her a curious look.

“It’s – it’s – the brooch that the King gave me last night, Mr. Lannister.” She frowned when he did not reach out to take it. “Isn’t that why you came here? To retrieve it on behalf of the King?”

The man laughed, throwing his head back in delight. “Gods, no. Though I’m sure my cousin, Queen Cersei, would like that. Did you happen to see her face when King Robert gave that to you? I nearly wet my pants.” He shrugged. “Keep it. The King sometimes gets inspired to give women pieces of jewelry, though admittedly usually not in the presence of his Queen. You should enjoy it and wear it. This piece will be worth something one day. Something to pass on to the next generation and so on.”

“Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed.” He tilted his head and looked at her critically. “You look different off the stage. Very.”

She sighed. “Mr. Lannister, I am aware I am much uglier out of my costume and make up.”

He shook his head. “Gods, no, that’s not what I meant at all. Forgive me. After all, given this,” He gestured to his own body and face. “I’m entirely not one to judge another’s appearance. In fact, I think we probably have much in common in that regard.”

Brienne nodded, still skeptical, yet conceding his point.

He cleared his throat. “I’m here because I was wondering if you were interested in pursuing singing. Formally, that is. I know you have a thriving career in the circus here, but your voice is highly unusual and very beautiful. I have never heard the like. It belongs on stage, I think. You could be a real star.”

Brienne could not help but gape at him. He cocked his head at her and smiled to himself.

He continued. “I happen to be on the board of King’s Landing Conservatory of Music, and can get you an audition. I am well versed in opera and entertainment – my father would say, much too well-versed, and I think you could make it on stage. My brother certainly agrees quite strongly.”

“Your brother?”

“Jaime Lannister? The very up-and-coming new composer and piano virtuoso who’s gotten all the ladies sighing over him, and who happens to have attended the Conservatory himself. You must have noticed him – he was the handsomest man in the tent, and likely in of all Westeros. Of course, you did capture the attention of the King. Now that is certainly a statement, though his majesty did take that red-headed tightrope walker to his bed instead of you last night.”

“Ros? She and the King?” Come to think of it, Brienne had not seen Ros all morning.

Tyrion laughed. “Please keep that in confidence. We don’t necessarily want rumours of infidelity at this early stage of his marriage. In any case, the King’s many affairs are really his business, and none of ours.”

Brienne felt compassion for the Queen then, her cold expression suddenly making sense. Weren’t they married just six moons ago? It must have been anguish for her majesty too see her beloved husband be with another.

“Well, Miss Tarth? Will you try out a new career in singing?” He looked at her expectantly.

Brienne remembered the night of the opera and the magic she had felt hearing the voice of the soprano. She remembered the conviction she’d had about wanting to end up on that stage one day. It must have been all a sign, she thought: the opera, the King’s gift, and now Mr. Lannister.

“Alright,” she said with some trepidation, nodding her head. “I will audition.”


	4. Four: The Conservatory

She learned again that completely changing one’s life was a simple thing. Yet this time, Brienne was abandoning people she cared about, which, she discovered, made leaving considerably more difficult. The troupe had finished the season in King’s Landing, and would be returning to Dorne for the off season. As the rest of the troupe made their way south by train, Brienne would be remaining in the city.

Of course, she had the enthusiastic blessing of Oberyn and Ellaria and the rest of the troupe since they realized that her singing could take her beyond the confines of the circus tent. But she had never felt like she belonged as she did at the circus, with all the misfits and uniquely talented individuals that made up their odd little family; they were an entire universe unto themselves, separated from the rest of the world. The circus was never part of society, but an odd sphere in which regular rules of decorum and morality did not necessarily apply, which in turn fostered in her a sort of freedom and independence which she would never have experienced in her previous life. She felt a pang of regret: she would miss traveling on the road, going from town to town, and spending time with the whole ensemble. They would write of course, but she knew that letters were not the same as living with the gang on a day to day basis. She was going off in an entirely new adventure, but Brienne could not help feel that she would also be losing almost just as much.

“I shall miss you,” Oberyn said, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her lightly on the lips, his hands warm and relaxed around her waist.

Ellaria smiled at Brienne’s blushing response. “Still so innocent.” The woman’s own kiss was soft and lingering and tasted of clove and honey.

Brienne could not help but remember her nameday where they had pleasured her. It burned in her memory - the taste of their kisses, the gentle way in which they touched her, and she had to admit to herself that she was curious to know more; something in her had awakened.

“I shall miss you too. All of you. You’ve been like family to me.” Brienne could feel tears fill her eyes. 

Ellaria made a soothing noise and embraced her, kissing her cheek. “None of that, Brienne. In our business, we have to say goodbye to people all the time. But it is never a real goodbye. We always see each other again. As we will with you.”

Oberyn nodded, smiling softly. “In the meantime, here is something to remember us by.” He kissed her throat, making her moan a little, then she felt something light touch her collarbone. She looked down and saw a silver pendant in the shape of a horseshoe. 

She stared at the two of them, then back at her pendant. She felt like she was on the verge of bursting into tears.

“For good luck,” murmured Oberyn, his fingers brushing away the few tears that had escaped from her eyes.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The conservatory was a shock to Brienne – she found her days filled with classes and private lessons. She had been planning to sell the brooch she received from the King for her tuition, but she was astonished to learn that she had gotten a scholarship, in addition to free board in a tiny room in the attic of the conservatory theatre. The room wasn’t much, but there was a washroom down the hall and room enough for a small bed and a desk and chair. Best of all, she got glimpses of performances from back stage. The workers, after their initial surprise at her height and stature, got used to her presence and greeted her warmly whenever they crossed paths.

All in all, her life was regimented and scheduled, with no room for much of anything except her studies. Her days were occupied with music theory, languages, composition, piano, and singing lessons. It was an adjustment to go back into regular society, and she felt a danger in it too. She kept to herself, and her life as a circus performer was firmly kept in the past; other students mostly left her alone, although they could not help but stare at her large and mannish appearance. Some of the bolder men laughed loudly behind her back as she walked past, muttering "Brienne the Beauty". One even threw a red rose at her as a mockery of her appearance. She also heard whispers, of how she would never make it in opera because of her height and size. Perhaps she could play a witch or a demon, they said, but never the heroine. Who would ever want to kiss her? Who would even believe that anyone would want to fall in love with a freak such as her?

“Your voice,” Master Varys said, his green, robe-like jacket moving fluidly around his rotund form. “Is highly unusual. I have heard the type only once before.”

He had been running her through drills with her voice over and over. They had not gotten to practice an entire song in the few weeks she had been studying with him.

“They told me during the audition… something about Lady Stoneheart?” The audition had been a blur, and she was terrified, but always, something had taken over her when she opened her mouth to sing.

He looked at her under a furrowed brow. “A tragic story – Lady Stoneheart was the premier soprano some twenty years ago, a girl fresh out of the Riverlands. A red-haired beauty, and her voice! Able to sing the low notes one moment and the next moment hitting the high notes with undiminished power. I was a mere young man myself when I first heard her. I felt my soul had left its cage when I heard her sing!” He looked enraptured at the memory. “But her career only lasted five years. Some blame it on lack of training, some on her pushing her voice too hard, but she broke her voice during a performance and was unable to fully sing ever again. She disappeared to god knows where after that. Such a shame,” he sighed.

He looked at her, his gaze shrewd. “You have that kind of range. They call your voice the falcon voice. Very rare. I felt my spine tingle when I heard you in the audition, Miss Tarth. It’s no wonder you got that scholarship.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. I wondered why I was awarded the scholarship.” Brienne was feeling bewildered but also felt proud, thrilled to have it acknowledged by a knowledgeable master.

“While the Lannister connection got you the audition, the scholarship was all your doing,” he assured her, smiling kindly. 

“I’ve been running you through drills for weeks, as you’ve noticed. I’m impressed. Your voice is strong, resilient. I think you’ll have a longer career than Lady Stoneheart, whose voice was always on the edge of breaking when you actually listened to her. But I think yours will not break. Still, you need to protect it.”

“Thank you, Master Varys.” She paused. “I don’t know what I’m doing sometimes, being here. I know I have a lot of catch up on.”

Varys nodded. “You are remarkably ignorant in the Opera and its songs, even though your voice is technically proficient. I’m glad you are able to read music at least, and are somewhat accomplished on the piano. Who did you study with, prior to this?”

Brienne shook her head. “Nobody. I had piano lessons when I was growing up, of course, but formal musical training stopped three years ago, when I was fifteen.”

Master Varys sniffed in disapproval. “A poor decision. I wonder if you have taken music seriously, if that is the case.”

Brienne wanted to protest – tell him about the wars, Tarth, the circus. But she shut her mouth and shook her head. “No, Master Varys. I hope to work harder to make up for all those years.”

He nodded. “With regards to that, I’ve arranged you to take extra lessons from a musician, so you will learn the songs that should be in your operatic repertoire.” He wrote down an address on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Here. Go to this address at 7pm. He will be expecting you.”

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Brienne was frantic when she arrived at the address that Master Varys gave her – she cursed herself for being so stupid – for she decided to walk to the address, not realizing how far it was until it was much too late to change course. In the end, she had to run the last few blocks, dodging wealthy couples, women in large-skirted, expensive walking dresses, but she was still ten minutes late according to her pocket watch. Even in her red-faced, panting state, she was aware of the extravagance of the white stone building she was entering – she was evidently in an exclusive neighbourhood, where only the elite of society lived. She was let in by an unimpressed manservant, a neatly put together dark-haired young man, into the music room. He took her hat and gloves from her, he raised an eyebrow at her disheveled appearance. She clumsily stumbled into the music room. A tall, elegant man stood looking out the window with his back to her, and turned around as soon as she entered. He did not seem pleased at her arrival.

Brienne nearly gasped. 

It was the most handsome man she’d ever seen, the same blond god from the circus, Jaime Lannister, cousin to the Queen. He was younger than she’d thought upon closer inspection, just a few years older than her, and yet apparently accomplished enough to teach. His green eyes were sharp, cynically examining her from head to foot. She blushed. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sarcastic smile.

“You’re late.”

“I’m so sorry. I underestimated the time it would take to get here.” She was desperately trying to catch her breath, and was aware that she was tomato red and sweating like all the seven hells. She futilely dabbed her face with a handkerchief, wishing she’d taken a few moments to catch her breath before bursting in to his rooms. 

He looked her up and down dismissively. “You can’t have been late because you were making yourself pretty for me,” he said derisively. “Gods, you’re sweating like a sow in heat. Sit down, for the sake of all the gods. Breathe.” 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lannister.” She gingerly perched on an ornate red and gold divan and looked down at her hands. “I made the mistake of walking from the conservatory instead of getting a hansom.”

He turned his head toward her and stared. “Gods, woman. You walked all the way from the Conservatory? Are you insane?”

Brienne started to get annoyed, despite herself. “It’s an easy distance. I’m used to walking. I just hadn’t factored in crowds or the presence of carriages in crossing the streets.”

The manservant helpfully returned with a tall glass of lemonade which she gratefully drank and finished in a few long gulps. Mr. Lannister raised his eyebrows. 

“I can’t help but notice that you know my name,” he said, finally sitting down opposite her in an armchair.

“Yes. I recognized you. From the circus.”

“Funny. I don’t recognize _you_.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless you were the equestrienne who impressed the King so much that he gave you a shining bauble straight from his lapel.”

Brienne felt her face flame.

“You certainly look different. I would hardly have recognized you if it weren’t for your giantess stature. But I suppose one can perform miracles with makeup, costume and lighting, hmmm? The Blue Angel, you were called, if I remember correctly. It would be more appropriate to call you the Red Angel now, I suppose, although _angel_ would be a very loose term in this particular case.” He smiled, but it was sharp and cutting. She had the odd sensation that he was seeing right through her.

She felt her hands curl into fists as she looked at his smug, mocking, handsome face. Anger blazed through her. She was used to people mocking her for her looks, but he was supposed to be a professional. He was supposed to teach her.

She stood up, and glared at the man sitting in front of her. She turned to go.

“Wait,” he called out. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She turned around to face him. “I did not walk all the way here to have my looks be insulted at every turn, Mr. Lannister. It’s clear that whatever Master Varys has arranged will not work. I bid you goodbye.”

She heard him scramble up, moving faster than she’d thought, and he was in front of her, blocking the door and her escape. He was nearly as tall as Brienne, a surprise, and up close his face was even more perfect, much to her annoyance. His expression was one of amusement, which enraged her even further.

“Then why did you come here, Miss Tarth? Do you actually want to be a singer?”

“Of course I do,” she said stiffly.

“I don’t tolerate lateness.”

“That won’t happen again. You have my word.” She looked at him, noticing the mischievous glint in his eye.

“Then come to the piano.” 

She hesitated, embarrassment running through her, a desire to bolt strongly urging her to leave. 

He sighed. “Come on, then. Let’s start over.”

She followed him as he sat in front of the instrument. He led her briefly through a number of vocal exercises, exploring her range. When she hit the notes of her upper register, Jaime raised an eyebrow.

“Right,” he said, looking at her up and down. He stood up and moved to a nearby armchair. He crossed his legs, and looked thoughtfully at her.

“Alright, Miss Tarth. Won’t you please sing for me?”

She stared at him, confused. “What would you like me to sing, Mr. Lannister?”

He winced. “Jaime, please. Not Mr. Lannister. I’m not as ancient as all that.”

“What shall I sing, Mr. Lannister?” Brienne continued stubbornly.

He laughed; the dimples that were revealed, in addition to the hypnotic movement of his Adam’s apple at his fine throat, transfixed her.

“Sing all the songs you know, wench. I want to hear you sing everything that you know.”

“My name is Miss Tarth.”

“Please, Miss Tarth. Wench.”

He smiled wider as she scowled at him. But she sang. She sang the Tarth folk songs, the love songs of the smallfolk, the ballads of love. She ended with her signature song that she performed at the circus, which never failed to move the audience.

Jaime, when she finished, looked like he was in a waking dream, his face beautiful and transported, his eyes seeing her but seeing something beyond as well. He was silent for some minutes and only came back to himself when Brienne moved to drink some water. The evening had grown dark. She looked at her watch and was surprised to see that three hours had passed.

“If I had any doubts that you were The Blue Angel, they are gone now,” Jaime murmured, looking at her intently. He stood up, went to his desk. “We’ll have lessons three evenings a week. Come again Wednesday, 7pm. Will you be able to make it?”

She nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Lannister.”

He looked at his pocket watch. “Gods. It’s late. I’ll ask Peck to drive you home.”

“Oh no – it’s not necessary – I’ll take a hansom.”

He walked toward her. “Don’t be stubborn, wench.” He rang the bell for Peck and instructed him to get the horses ready.

They stared at each other. Brienne offered her hand in a handshake, and Jaime smirked as he held her hand in his.

“It was a pleasure hearing you sing this evening, Miss Tarth.” He lowered his gaze and brought her hand, which he still held, to his lips.

“Of course, Mr. Lannister,” she nearly stammered, overwhelmed by the nearness of such an ideal specimen of a man, the warmth of his lips on the back of her hand. She willed herself to look him directly in his eyes, which were devastatingly beautiful and glittering with amusement. “I apologize for being late. It won’t happen again.”

On her way home, swaying inside Jaime’s carriage, she could not help but remember his face when she had finished singing her songs. She had never sang so much in one sitting. His face had been heavenly, the expression happy and at peace, all the tension leached from it. She had never seen anyone so transported by music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update in a few days.


	5. Five: Private Lessons

The weeks and months flowed into each other, as King’s Landing became increasingly cold and grey. On Tarth, the ground would be near frozen, with wild storms battering the coast, Brienne remembered in moments that came back to her like phantoms. In her attic corner – for it was a lonely corner that she ended up in – she was plagued with memories of war and fire, and her family dying one by one, and she not being able to do anything to stop it. She wondered sometimes, especially when she jolted awake in the middle of the night, why it was she who survived. Why had she lived and they did not? Galadon was better than her in all respects: braver, stronger, more honourable, and yet he perished after being stabbed in the gut by a random soldier. Why him and not her? Brienne did not think she deserved the chance that she was getting, to sing on stage, to do the very thing she loved most in the world. How could she deserve any of this when her family was in the ground?

Her refuge from her dark thoughts and nightmares was school and music. She worked hard and improved in her piano and music comprehension. She even began to like her extra lessons with the irritating Jaime Lannister. He was extremely knowledgeable about opera, and taught her the songs she needed to know. He had a fine ear – he evidently had perfect pitch and could detect when she was even just a touch flat or sharp. He knew when she was running out of breath. He made her do odd breathing exercises that helped her extend her notes longer and longer. He told her to continue the physical training that she did for the circus, saying that a strong body supports a strong voice.

It was with complete surprise that she realized that she actually _liked_ him and respected his opinion. 

One day, she arrived for her lesson and he wasn’t there. She was led in by Peck to wait in the music room. She waited. She played the piano and sang a few songs, and the evening stretched out, but he did not arrive. Tired, she lay down on the divan and was lulled to sleep.

She was awoken by the opening of a door, and voices, one low, the other boisterous. Curious, she followed the sounds and saw Jaime speaking with Peck. From the slur in his voice, Brienne knew that he was drunk. Very drunk.

“Mr. Lannister – Jaime –” she said tentatively.

He turned at the sound of her voice, and she flinched at this brittle, hard gaze. “Wench! You’re here for our lesson, I gather.” 

He wavered and it seemed like he might fall. Peck steadied him, only to be met by the vicious gaze of the man. “Leave me, Peck. I have to converse with Miss Tarth.”

“But, Mr. Lannister –”

“Leave me,” he growled. Peck left, giving Brienne a rather desperate look.

Jaime looked at her and smiled, wincing a little. It was then that she noticed his left cheek was red and swollen, with small cuts on the skin. He took a step, wobbled, and nearly fell. Brienne stepped forward to steady him, her hand on his elbow and waist. He smelled of wine and strangely, of a cloying, flowery perfume. A sickly rose. The impression that his whole body made was one of defeat. Alarm sounded vaguely in her body. She was concerned but also transfixed at the heat of his body so close to hers.

“Gods, you’re strong.” He laughed, and looked at her with sad eyes. “I’m afraid I’m in no shape for our lesson today, Brienne. My apologies.”

She drew him into the music room and sat him down on the divan. He exhaled loudly. 

“Jaime, what happened? Are you alright?”

He moaned and put his head in his hands. “I’m fine, wench. Just the same old thing, nothing to be concerned about.”

Peck had come in with a glass of water, a wash basin, and ice pack. It seemed he was used to his employer coming back with wounds, from the look of things. 

“Drink this,” she said, handing him the glass. He obediently drank. He stared at her, his eyes dark and unhappy. 

“You should go home, Brienne. It’s late.” 

She nodded. “I shall. After I clean you up a little, alright?” 

He winced a bit as she cleaned the cuts on his cheek – they were little, shallow cuts, and judging from their placement, were a result of rings from a hand. Luckily, they were barely bleeding and were shallow enough not to require stitches. Jaime's eyes were heavy lidded as she dabbed his cuts.

“You know, at the circus, people used to get injured all the time. Usually minor things, like sprains or little cuts. I’d often have to patch people up sometimes, when the Maester wasn’t available.” She smiled at him. “But you know us circus folk, we never miss a show. Often we’d wrap our ankles and wrists tightly and perform through the pain. The show must go on, as they say.”

Jaime was looking at her and smiling gently. “You know, it’s the first time you’ve talked about the circus. No one at the conservatory knows that you were The Blue Angel, do they? Why is that?”

She looked down. “I don’t like to talk about my past.”

He turned to her but seemed to look past her, into a vague distance. His shoulders were slumped and the way he held his posture spoke of exhaustion.

She pressed the ice pack on his cheek. “Who did this to you, Jaime?”

He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Please, leave it.”

She narrowed her eyes and bit her lip.

He looked at her, his green eyes wide. “Please. Don’t ask me.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “Alright. I won’t ask you.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. He looked so sad that she had an impulse to comfort him, to enfold her in her arms. Instead, she resisted.

“You should go. It’s late.” His voice was tired, thin and strained. 

She really should go; it was evident he didn’t want her there. She stood up. “Good night, Jaime.”

“Thank you, Brienne.” He nodded and sighed. “My apologies for missing our lesson.”

Peck, not wanting to leave Jaime alone, ordered her a hansom cab instead of driving her.

“I take it this happens often?” she asked him, curious.

The dark-eyed young man looked at her and nodded sadly.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Catelyn Stark held off her attacker, as the man tried to stab her son. With the inhuman strength of a desperate mother, she grabbed the blade of the dagger with both hands, her whole body shaking with fear and rage. With a vicious lunge, the man was knocked off balance and the blade was plunged into his chest. The man slumped and fell to the ground.

There were seconds of awed silence.

She was soon met with informal applause from the circle of students that watched. The victim scrambled up to standing, laughing and delighted.

“Emotion is the key,” Mistress Stark said to them. “For the audience to believe what is happening to you, you must believe in it yourself.”

She turned to Brienne. “Miss Tarth, you are lacking that emotional connection, that desperation that a mother would have. I see you go through the motions, but I don’t _believe_ that you’re feeling any grief.” The elegant, red-haired woman leaned forward. “I know it’s hard because as an eighteen-year-old you haven’t experienced much grief, but do try to imagine it, if you can.”

Brienne nodded, feeling empty inside. She felt the gulf between herself and the other students, the size of the ocean.

“Why is she playing the mother, anyway?” Hyle Hunt remarked, smirking. “She’s much too big to be anyone’s mother.”

“And who would believe that any man would fuck her to beget a child? The beauty!” Ronnet Connington sneered, smiling crookedly.

“Look at the size of her. She’s going to overpower any man that would end up playing the assassin. I’ve got an idea, why doesn’t she play the assassin instead. It’s definitely more believable.” Mark Mullendore declared and most of the class tittered.

“I suppose going by your logic, you’d be only playing assholes, then?” Robb Stark remarked, his eyes bright with outrage. He laughed, and was quickly joined by the rest of the class, who sensed a change in their loyalties at the outburst by the handsome auburn haired man.

Mistress Stark glared at the feuding men. “Gentlemen, this is a class on performance and acting. If you are more interested in insulting your fellow students, I suggest you quit the Conservatory and find another vocation.”

The men in question had the wherewithal to look shamed. They mumbled apologies.

Mistress Stark sighed. “Class dismissed. Off with you.”

Brienne exhaled, striding quickly toward the door and burst out into the gardens, her eyes stinging. She wanted to scream and to cry at the same time. She hated being in the classes – there were always inevitable insults about her looks, reminders that she did not belong at the school or in the opera world and would never belong. She regretted quitting her old life – at least in the circus she was relatively normal in the world of misfits; people loved her for who she was and what she could do. 

“Tarth,” Robb said, walking up to her. “Are you alright?”

She nodded, turning to him, surprised that he would come after her. “I just hate this.” She exhaled in frustration. 

“Don’t let those idiots get to you. They’re nothing and will always amount to nothing. Unlike you.” Robb’s dark auburn hair glinted in the sunlight. His blue eyes crinkled at her. He was Mistress Stark’s son, but was one of the few students who was actually kind to her, unlike most of the others. It was really through his interventions that the others weren’t even nastier.

“Thank you for defending me in there,” Brienne said, giving him a small smile. Robb dismissed her thanks with an airy wave of his hand.

“They’re all jealous of you, Brienne.” He regarded her with admiration. “You earned your place here with your voice, while their fathers had to pile on money to get them admitted. It’s embarrassing, really.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know if a good voice can overcome what I need to overcome in Opera. Gods, I’m taller than any man in there.”

Robb tilted his head and looked up at her. “What rule is there that says that the woman singer has to be shorter or smaller than the man? That the woman can’t be bigger or stronger than the man?”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Robb. You yourself know that’s how it’s always been. It just looks wrong in any other case.”

“Is it written somewhere, Brienne? If so, would you kindly direct me to the page?” His eyes were sparkling and blue like the skies above them.

She rolled her eyes. “You know very well it’s not a written rule.”

“Then there’s nothing wrong with a woman playing the lead to a man who’s shorter than her. Especially if that particular woman is magnificent.”

“Robb, I understand what you’re attempting to do, but –”

“I’ll prove it.” Robb looked at her with an eager glint in his eye. “The spring recital – let’s pair up, do a duet.”

“Us? Sing together? Don’t you want to sing with a little thing like Jeyne?”

“Why would I want to sing with an insipid voice like her when I can sing with the best singer we’ve got?” Robb grinned and squeezed her hand. “Besides, I think we look grand together, don’t you?”

Brienne considered. She had been anxious about the recital, and had no clue as to what to do. She was nearly half a head taller than him, though he was already quite tall. She looked at the handsome Robb, who was smiling excitedly at his idea. He really was the only person who was kind to her, including all the girls at the school, who of often looked at her as if she were from a different planet. And Robb was also a spectacular tenor – with a rich, emotional voice that easily filled a room. He was destined to be a star.

She found herself smiling at the idea. Robb laughed delightedly as he saw her apparent acquiescence and hooked her arm around his as they began to stroll slowly around the garden.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

She was lying under the piano, her long legs sticking out, her eyes closed. She felt the notes of the piano wash over her, the reverberations of the wooden hammers striking the strings of the instrument. The melody vibrated through her skin and into her bones. It was glorious. As the final notes sounded through the room, Brienne felt a peace settle over her, like a pond grown calm after the wind had ruffled its surface.

“Where on earth did you learn that the best place to listen to the piano was under it?” Jaime asked, his expression amused, as she slid out from under the black instrument.

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve done it.” She laughed. “I was somehow drawn to the space and just crawled in. It’s rather grand.” She did not dare to mention the sight of his long, muscular legs of which she had a very good view.

“I thought you’d figured it out when you were a child, when your parents were playing the piano and you scrunched your long legs under to hide from them or your siblings,” he mused, his eyes playful. “Little Brienne Tarth,” he said wistfully.

Brienne went quite still. “No. We never had a grand piano in our home. Just a stand up one that was always slightly out of tune. It was my mother who first taught me.”

“Your family...they must be proud of you.” His voice was hesitant, studying her face.

Her face darkened, and she turned away. She hesitated. “They’re gone,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Dead.”

She felt a warm touch on her elbow, her upper arm, even through her grey day dress. “Gods, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

She shook her head. “It’s alright. How could you have?” She walked toward the piano and sat down on the bench. After a pause, Jaime surprised her by sitting next to her, far too close for propriety’s sake. This thigh pressed against hers; his warmth near her was comforting.

She began to idly play notes on the piano, perhaps from some forgotten tune as she spoke. “I grew up on the island of Tarth, with parents, an older brother, and two twin sisters. I was happy there – I rode horses, played music, sang to the cows and trees.” She looked over at Jaime – his expression was thoughtful and intently listening. “Then the Targaryens invaded, war came. We all starved. My family all died from illness or were killed. I was fifteen years old when it all happened.”

She saw rather than felt her fingers shake, as they faltered over the black and ivory keys. Jaime’s hand clasped her left hand and held it. It was such a warm and simple gesture of kindness that she felt something inside of her crumble and the toughness that she had fostered simply broke apart. She suddenly found herself crying, much to her mortification, and Jaime was turning toward her and pulling her into his arms. He was solid and warm, and gods, she had never had anyone comfort her like that before – she had never told anyone about her past before. She had never cried in front of another person before. Why did she fall apart and tell Jaime of all people? But all she knew that it felt too good being embraced by him and protected by him, at least in this moment, even if it didn’t mean anything. 

She pulled away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

He cooed her into silence and took out his handkerchief, dabbing the tears from her eyes. 

“Thank you for telling me, Brienne. Your secrets are safe with me, of course.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through the last three years. You’re only eighteen but you’ve probably already lived a lifetime.” His jaw tightened. “God knows I have a... well, complicated relationship with my family, but at least they’re alive.”

She nodded, and she gave him a grateful look.

He groaned a little, shaking his head lightly. “Your eyes, Brienne. They can undo a man.” She looked at him, confused. 

He laughed, and lightly traced her cheek and jaw with his fingers. “Still so young, so innocent.”

She frowned. “You’re not that much older–”

“I’m twenty-three, still older than you.” He chuckled. He turned to the piano. “Come, have you done this? Let’s play together – the song ‘The Bear and the Maiden Fair’ – you do the bottom part, I’ll play the top. Alright? Consider this part of your lesson.”

She guffawed, rolling her eyes, but she began to play with her left hand the song, while Jaime’s right hand joined her; at first it took a while to adjust to each other, but soon enough, it was as if they were playing with one mind, although Jaime could not help but do his little musical flourishes every now and then. Jaime started to sing the bawdy lyrics, and Brienne joined him for the chorus. They giggled with merriment like young children.

The door opened. Brienne jerked her hand away and looked around.

Peck looked at them embarrassed. “My apologies for interrupting, Mr. Lannister and Miss Tarth.” The young man gave Jaime a significant look. 

“What is it, Peck?” Jaime sighed, turning around. 

“It’s just that – uh – there’s a carriage waiting for you, Sir.”

Jaime’s face twisted in annoyance. “What? Today? Right now?”

“Apparently the party was quite insistent, according to the driver Clegane.”

Jaime threw her a flustered look. He stood up and bowed to her. “Brienne – I apologize, I must go, see to this...matter. Peck will see you home.”

She stood up, a little confused. “Of course, Jaime. I understand.”

He seemed frantic, pulling on his overcoat and hastening to find his gloves and hat. He turned to her and kissed her hand in farewell. 

“Until next time, Miss Tarth.” He gave her a rueful smile and dashed out.

She sighed, gazing out the window and seeing Jaime’s handsome figure disappear into a large, ornate black carriage. The man who was driving was huge and grim-faced, his black jacket barely restraining his muscles. The carriage quickly clattered out into the street and out of her line of vision.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Even though Brienne had performed in countless shows as a circus performer, the truth was, she had only ever attended the one opera on her nameday. Now, being a student in the conservatory, she had the opportunity to see many more concerts and performances. It was always magical, and tonight, the presence of the rising piano virtuoso and composer Jaime Lannister on the stage made it even more so. It was Jaime's first solo concert featuring his own composition, and he looked like a golden god on the stage, sitting behind the grand piano alongside the musicians that played the violin, viola, and cello in his quartet. Brienne was familiar with the composition, as he had practiced it often enough following their lessons. But watching him on stage, she was astounded by the swift agility of his fingers, which quickly flew across the black and white ivory keys. His hands were truly magical. The composition was light, delightful, like a beautiful summer’s day. Listening to it with the full quartet made her spirit take flight. 

The new work was a tribute to the beautiful Queen, as a lot of pieces were in that day and age. However, few composers had the benefit of being related to the Queen, so it was hardly a surprise that the royal couple was in attendance, sitting in the exclusive and ornate royal box. Watching their majesties, Brienne wryly observed that both were looking a little bit bored, even though the music was really quite divine. The King was large, a bit heavier than when she last saw him a few months ago, but no less handsome. The Queen was just as beautiful as she remembered from that fateful night in the circus – yet her affect was still remote and cold; she did, however, look at her cousin Jaime with a strange sort of greed on her face at moments when Jaime finished a spectacular flourish of his fingers.

The applause was generous, and Jaime and the musicians received a warm standing ovation. He grinned and bowed to the audience, and bowed pointedly at the royal box. The queen smiled benignly down at him, clapping lightly, a pleased expression on her perfect face. Brienne was thrilled for Jaime – he worked hard, hours upon hours of dedication, and he deserved to have this moment. He was surely getting himself known in the music world.

The performance had taken place in the Conservatory’s large theatre, where students rehearsed and performed year-round. It wasn’t as prestigious as the King’s Landing Opera House, but as a venue it was still grand and beautiful, with tremendous history. Brienne, living in the small attic apartment at the top of the building, was familiar with the place and the kind people who worked there.

On impulse, Brienne had bought Jaime a large bouquet of yellow peonies that she kept in her rooms that she quickly retrieved after the performance. Taking the back stairs, she emerged into the hallway of the dressing room. When she turned the corner, she heard voices, male and female, tender and passionate. She saw the door to Jaime’s dressing room being flung open, flooding light into the dark hallway. The shadows that emerged in the cascade of light revealed the silhouettes of two figures embracing and kissing. There were murmurs. A woman, golden curls piled at the top of her head, dressed ornately in a red beaded dress, emerged from the doorway. The woman was breathtaking. She was also familiar.

Brienne stifled a gasp, recognizing the distinctive form of Queen Cersei. Brienne saw Jaime stand in the doorway, looking down at the woman, smiling and looking pleased. He adjusted the neckline of her majesty’s gown, in an all too intimate gesture. The Queen smirked and glided down the hallway. Jaime looked at her retreating form, but before he went back inside, he turned and started and stared down the hallway. Brienne was hidden around the corner, but as Jaime stared, he seemed to know someone was there. She was desperately afraid to move, hoping he would at last just close the door.

“Miss Tarth, I see your very pale head, even in the dark.” He sighed and went back into his dressing room. “Come on in, then.”

Brienne tentatively walked and lingered at his door. She felt like a fool. “Listen, I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to –”

“Come in, for god’s sake. And close the door behind you.” Jaime collapsed onto his dressing room chair, looking exhausted.

He looked at her, frowning, but then his expression changed to amusement as he saw what she was holding. “Are those _flowers_ you’re holding in your hand?”

Oh gods. She felt herself flush a deep red. What a fool she was. “Well, yes. It was always nice to get flowers after I performed, so I thought – it’s silly – I thought to get you some.”

Jaime smiled, accepting the flowers. “Nobody’s ever gotten me flowers before,” he observed, experimentally sniffing the large yellow flowers. “These are pretty. You make me feel like a maiden being wooed,” he joked.

“You were wonderful out there,” she said nervously. “I wanted to congratulate you.”

“Thank you.” His expression was far away. His gaze suddenly sharpened on her. 

“There were guards just now, you know, preventing people from entering the usual way. That’s how I knew it was you – well aside from your hair that is – I swear, your head is like a beacon in the dark.” He chuckled. “You’d be the only who has access to the back stairs.”

She stood silent, staring at him.

“I suppose you saw who that was?” His green eyes glinted. 

She nodded. “Her majesty.”

“My cousin.” He looked at her coldly. “I suppose you disapprove.”

“Isn’t it dangerous? If the King found out –”

Jaime threw his head back and let out a bitter laugh. “We’re lucky this isn’t three hundred years ago. If the King found out back then, both Cersei and I would have been executed immediately. I would likely have been drawn and quartered. Luckily, we live in a modern age. The consequences would be just ruination, I suppose. Social exile, financial disaster? A one way trip to the colonies? Of course, I say this despite the numerous affairs and mistresses the King has had himself.”

Brienne remembered Ros, the tightrope walker, and how she had been summoned by the King the night of their performance. She had come back the following morning coy and full of barely veiled stories about the King’s sexual exploits. Jaime cocked his head, looking at her keenly.

“I was her first, you know. We were each other’s firsts.”

“Oh.”

“Did you know we grew up together? Everyone thought we were siblings – twins even. We grew close after my mother died, we comforted each other. We’ve been in love for years. I wanted to marry her.”

“Then why didn’t you? Marriage between cousins is perfectly legal.” He stared at her.

“If you had the opportunity to become Queen, wouldn’t you take it?” He looked at her, curious.

She huffed, shaking her head at the preposterous thought. “No, of course not. Why would I ever want to be Queen?”

Jaime threw his head back and laughed. “Well, there’s the difference between you and my cousin. She’d do anything to be Queen. And I would do anything for her.”

“You must love her very much.” Brienne said, imagining how perfect they looked next to each other. Beauties meant only for each other, golden visions that rightfully belonged to each other.

He shrugged. “Some of the time I do. But other times, I feel...very stuck. Like I have nowhere else to go.”

She stared at him. All of a sudden, Jaime looked defeated. He shook his head sadly. “I’m a fool. My brother recently told me that I am not the only lover that the Queen has. I’m not sure whether to believe him or not. I think I’ve decided not to believe him; the alternative would be unbearable to me. She has been all I have.”

“I’m very sorry.” Brienne said plainly, not knowing what else to say.

He rubbed his head in his hands in frustration and sighed. “Can’t you...stop it, if it makes you unhappy?” Her voice was tentative and small.

He looked up at her, his eyes large and very green. “Tell me, wench, how does one say no to the Queen? She sends for me when she wants me, and I must go, whether night or day. And I’ve loved her all my life, despite it all.”

It started to make sense, how he would sometimes miss lessons, or come back exhausted, troubled. The swollen cheek. One time she spotted scratches on the side of his neck just below his collar. He was evasive, avoided her gaze at those moments; at times, he even seemed ashamed.

“Jaime,” Brienne said, approaching him tentatively, and putting a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Was she the one who hit you and cut your face that time?”

His shoulders visibly deflated. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked at her mournfully. “She gets angry – she has never been able to control her temper. I’ve always been able to handle her though; she doesn’t mean it when she loses control.”

“Jaime, that’s not right. You shouldn’t have to suffer through this. There must be a way out.”

He looked at her like a man haunted. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, Brienne. Leave everything behind. Start over.”

She shook her head. “I had no choice, Jaime. I needed to do it to survive.”

He nodded, understanding. “You’re astonishing. I admire you.”

She felt a surge of sympathy for the man in front of her. He was handsome, talented, rich, but he was still so unhappy. “Jaime. You’re a good man. You’re strong enough to pull away.”

He looked at her, nodding slowly, his expression sad. He clasped her hand. “I still love her, Brienne. Despite it all.”

He stood up, letting go of her hand. “Thank you for the flowers. And for being here.” He sighed deeply. “Forgive me. I must get ready. There is a carriage that will be coming or me in a little while.”

Brienne looked at the man before her before she left the room, who really had the world before him. Yet he had the expression of a haunted, pursued man who could see no way out. She wanted to tell him to run away, to leave and start over, just as she had done, but she remained silent. At this juncture, at least, Jaime seemed all too willing to lock himself in the cage of his own making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be able to squeeze in one more update this week. We'll see.


	6. Six: Spring Recital

“It’s a bold choice to perform this piece,” Jaime said, after she had shown him the music for it. “The story of tragic lovers, separated by the Gods.”

“Robb chose it,” Brienne said, looking at him curiously. “And I agree with him in that it’s an unexpected choice for someone like me, but the song is spectacular.”

“It is quite romantic.” He looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You are close to young Robb Stark, are you? How does Mistress Stark feel about this, hmmm? Her eldest son getting close to a woman like you?” Jaime smiled crookedly at her. 

She scowled, wondering what insult he meant by a _woman like her_. “We’re just singing together. I don’t know quite what you mean.”

He shrugged, then played a few notes on the piano. “I’m just saying Catelyn Stark is ambitious, not to mention protective of her darling heir.”

She frowned a him.

Jaime smiled courteously and bowed his head. “Well then, my Blue Angel. Please, sing.”

When she finished, he furrowed his brow, looking at her thoughtfully.

“What?” she said, defensive.

“Well, wench. You don’t _sound_ like you’re in love. You don’t sound like you’re in the throes of passion and you’re about to lose your one true love and would sacrifice your life for him.”

“Well….” She bit her lip, at a loss for words.

“Hmmm.” He stood up and went up to her, standing close in front of her. She nearly flinched at the nearness of him, the heat that Jaime radiated.

“Robb...if he were here, he would be holding you like so, correct?” Jaime drew his arms around her waist and drew her near, their chests nearly touching. She could feel the strange tension from his body, his face much too close to hers. His eyes were intent, never leaving hers. She felt a blush suffuse her whole face. Much to her mortification, Jaime looked deeply into her eyes. He stroked her hair, her face, with such tenderness that she felt herself melting in his arms. 

“He would look into your blue eyes just so,” he murmured, his eyes darkening into a moss green.

She could barely stand still. A part of her wanted to run away; a part of her wanted to lean forward.

“Now sing,” he went on his tiptoes, leaned closer and whispered in her ear, making her shiver.

Her eyes never leaving the green depths of his eyes, she sang her part of the song, and she felt vulnerable, afraid, but also free. She felt the cage around her ribs fall one my one. Something had unfettered her heart, and she allowed the song to find all the sharp corners of it. A part of her unlatched, like a window opening. As she sang, she felt Jaime’s arms growing tighter around her, his thumbs circling her hips; she felt she was falling toward him, even without moving. 

When she finished singing, he looked at her with admiring eyes, his mouth ajar. “I felt it,” he said, his face growing closer and closer. “Love.” Brienne could not look away. She couldn’t ignore it anymore, the veritable fact that she was inexplicably drawn to Jaime and had been since she first time she saw him. She felt just like she did in the circus, when she was about to jump on her horse through a ring of fire. She thought about Oberyn and Ellaria and how freely they expressed their wants. And oh, she desired Jaime, despite herself. His face was too close and she felt her lips moving closer and closer to his, until she softly pressed her mouth to his. She felt her blood grow warm. His lips tightened and melted under hers. He gave a growl that sounded at the back of his throat and pulled her into his arms, her body flush to his. He gave a low moan and kissed her back eagerly. He pushed his hips into hers and she felt him, growing hard against her. She shivered, surprised and overwhelmed.

Suddenly he pulled away, panting. His cheeks were pink, his lips swollen and wet. He stared at her, then crumpled down to an armchair. His face was filled with longing and, much to her embarrassment, regret.

“Brienne,” he murmured. His hand reached toward her and arrested itself.

She was suddenly hit with waves of shame and guilt. She had entirely forgotten – the Queen – the beautiful loveliness of her, and Jaime’s years-long devotion. She had no idea what could have possibly gotten into her – some sorcery in the music, perhaps.

“Oh gods. Jaime. I’m sorry –” She placed her hand over her mouth in horror. She couldn’t bear to be in the room any longer, and she quickly gathered up her things, avoiding his eyes at all cost.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, his voice soft and pleading. “Wait –”

“I’m so sorry – I must go. Gods –” She rushed out of the room, and out the door, not even bothering to wait for Peck to call her a hansom or let her out. She was mortified, wanting to run and hide. 

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Whatever happened with Jaime that evening – and this Brienne tried her best to exorcise the memory from her mind – it helped in the Spring recital with Robb. What did it matter if she pretended that Robb’s auburn hair was golden, his blue eyes green, his earnest gaze more cynical and knowing? She drew from her own confused tenderness around Jaime, and sang to Robb as if she were desperately in love. In turn, her performance spurred on his, as he looked back at her with besotted, entranced eyes. Their voices melded together, came apart and came back together in a long, wonderful note that resonated to the rafters. For a moment, it seemed like Robb was going to kiss her in the end, but the song ended, and both of them came back to themselves.

There was thunderous applause from the audience, which included students, instructors, as well as the general public that came to see the music students in their annual Spring recital. 

“I think we changed their minds about you being a romantic lead,” Robb murmured in her ear as they came off the stage.

Brienne giggled. Robb squeezed her hand, that he was apparently still holding.

“Bravo. Well, that was certainly impressive, you two,” Master Varys said, sidling up to them, his round head shining in the backstage light. Robb flushed, his hands running through his hair.

Brienne could not help but smile with pleasure. She knew they both sounded wonderful out on stage, especially in front of those idiot boys who made fun of her. A part of her felt vindicated.

Mistress Stark also came up to them, looked down at their joined hands, and smiled faintly. “That was excellent, my dears.” She kissed her son on the cheek. Robb blushed with embarrassment. 

“I believe you convinced most of the audience that you two are desperately in love,” Varys said drolly, a sly smile lighting his face.

“I believe that is called acting,” Brienne replied dryly. “I did try to take your acting lessons to heart, Mistress Stark.”

Catelyn Stark nodded, and squeezed her shoulder. She gave her son a long, bemused look. She and Varys left the stage, to get ready for the next student performance.

Robb turned to her with a bright smile. “We did it, Brienne.”

She returned his smile. “We did. That felt….”

“Incredible.”

“Yes.”

They smiled and simply looked at each other. Robb tugged her hand toward him and kissed it. “I look forward to you being my leading lady from now on.”

Brienne laughed. He smiled back at her, his eyes bright and welcoming.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

She saw the large, black carriage, its windows obscured by dark curtains as soon as she left Jaime’s rooms after her lesson. The large, hulking driver stared at her. She immediately thought of Jaime and how the Queen had summoned him once again. However, the door of the carriage opened as soon as she walked past, and a slim, well-dressed man sporting an elegant moustache whom she recognized from the papers as a government minister peeked out and gestured for her to get in.

“You have a very important engagement, Miss Tarth,” he said.

“I am not acquainted with you, sir.” She wondered if she could run and evade him.

“You know who I represent, do you not? I’m Minister Baelish. Your presence is urgently requested. You’re hardly allowed to decline.” He frowned at her, giving her an impatient look. He took out his pocket watch and looked at it pointedly.

Brienne wondered if this is what Jaime felt like, every time the carriage came calling for him. 

She climbed in, trying not to become alarmed as the horses made their way toward the Red Keep. The man remained silent throughout the ride, and gave her bemused glances every few minutes while riffling papers in his lap.

She was led through a backdoor into the castle, and through a series of underground passages, corridors and into a set of ornate, carved golden doors. The slim man said very little, but looked at her curiously from time to time, though he remained silent, save for a few innocuous remarks.

Brienne drew in her breath when she saw Queen Cersei in her plush and ornately decorated chambers. She was dressed in a gold gown, corseted tightly to emphasize her slight waist and perfect, round bosom. Her voluminous skirt was embroidered with golden vines and thorns. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and down her back in shining waves. Her face was as if the gods themselves had sculpted it – her eyes were green and bright, her lips small but perfectly shaped. Her skin luminous. She looked too much like Jaime. But instead of the playfulness that was in Jaime’s expression, the Queen was cold, hostile. She held herself tensely, her torso stiff.

Brienne curtseyed. “Your Grace.”

The Queen’s gaze scoured her up and down, lingering on her broad shoulders, her thick lips, her crooked nose. She laughed lightly, the sound like bells. 

“I remember you,” Queen Cersei said softly. “Your singing impressed the King so much that he gave you a bauble. He didn’t like you enough to bed you though. But then, he likes pretty girls with good teats.” She let out a brittle laugh. “Even for a man with his varied appetites, I’m sure bedding you would have been quite the challenge.”

The Queen stared at her, looking her up and down. “What is it about you that has captured my dear cousin’s attentions? You are certainly the most unattractive creature I’ve come across. I can’t imagine how he could be at all tempted by you.”

Brienne’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She tried to control her emotions by taking deep, slow breaths.

“I don’t know what you mean, your Grace. I take music lessons from Mr. Lannister.” She looked at the Queen’s distrustful eyes, the gold flecks glinting in the light. “You are mistaken if you believe –”

“Spare me your lies, Miss Tarth. Jaime has been refusing to see me, ignoring my summons. He has been spending all his free time with you. Don’t take me for an idiot.”

Brienne stayed silent, inwardly surprised by the revelations. He had been refusing the queen?

“I know how often you’ve been having your lessons, Miss Tarth, and how long you stay. And it seems that Jaime has been telling you all his secrets.”

“I would never disclose –”

“Oh, I know, child.” The queen looked disdainful. “I know your type. Good to the core. Terribly tedious.” 

The Queen studied her face. “Besides,” she said, “You would never do anything to hurt Jaime.” She scoffed. “After all, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?”

Brienne felt like she was struck by lightning, that she was naked and exposed in a violent storm. She was dumb, unable to form words.

The Queen laughed maliciously, her eyes narrowing. “My cousin is very beautiful, I grant you that. And he is spectacular between the sheets, not that you would ever know. He knows just how to touch a woman to make her scream with pleasure.” Her loveliness glimmered. “It’s too bad he’s so bloody stubborn,” she fumed.

She felt her entire body blush. Yet she took a deep breath and looked directly at the queen, who had just revealed to Brienne that she was just a woman, after all. She sounded, to Brienne’s astonishment, very jealous. It was inconceivable that she would be the cause, homely as she was.

“Why have you brought me here, your Grace?”

The Queen leaned forward, giving Brienne a look of her generous and perfect breasts. She gave her a piercing glance and gave her a smile that made her shiver with cold.

“I’ve brought you here to tell you that you’ll never have Jaime. He’s mine and will always be mine.” She raised an eyebrow. “I want you to cease your meetings with him from now on. It’s really quite improper for a young, unmarried...woman to meet a single man alone in his apartment. In any case, soon enough, I’m sure you’ll find that your course of lessons will have changed.”

Brienne gaped at her in disbelief. She could hardly understand what the Queen was saying, that she summoned her to the palace to warn her away from Jaime. It was utterly ridiculous.

“Leave me,” the Queen said, looking bored and turning away. Instead of the government minister, the grim, hulking man, who drove the carriage and was even taller than Brienne, led her back to the carriage.

Brienne puzzled over the night’s events and wanted to laugh. How could the Queen be threatened by one such as her? She was the most beautiful woman in Westeros, with all the power and influence that anyone could have, and yet she was concerned that an ugly eighteen-year-old girl was going to steal her lover away? The idea was completely ridiculous. Even if Brienne had admired Jaime and was half in love with him, the day would never come that he would ever reciprocate her feelings, as their very ill-advised and ill-timed kiss had made it abundantly clear.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The Queen’s words proved true; the lessons with Jaime had been removed from her schedule without much explanation except for a few platitudes from Mistress Stark about how much she had progressed in her studies and how she would benefit with independent pursuits. The Queen’s summons to the palace had disconcerted her; she felt she was being dragged into a muck that she had no notion of being in. She focused on the end of the year – she had exams, had to learn songs and pieces of music. She found an easy friendship with Robb, who was kind and noble and had an uncomplicated kind of lightness that she needed in her life. Their friendship was simple and undemanding, unlike the complicated twists of being around Jaime brought.

Of course, she missed her appointments with Jaime – it felt there was a hole in her life that she could not entirely fill with music or new friendships; she missed his intensity, the way he teased her, his elegant fingers on the piano keys, the way he provoked her to inject more feeling into her singing. She was drawn to him and she thought that she fascinated him in some perverse way, so much so that they had become odd friends.

Still, the days passed ploddingly – she was stuck in her cramped quarters, in the dusty attic room of the conservatory. She longed for fresh air. She missed trains and ships and long journeys. She missed her horses and feeling the beast’s strength between her legs and galloping into the wind. She missed being The Blue Angel, the roar and admiration of the crowd. For the first time in her life, she had kept in touch with old friends, and knew that the circus was about to start their new season after their winter break. A part of her wanted to return to the troupe and forget about her deluded dream of being on stage and singing.

She was surprised to find Jaime at her door one night, long after the others had gone home. His tie was undone, his clothes looked rumpled, and his face was strained. Yet he was no less Adonis-like in his beauty. His collar was open enough that Brienne could see the hollow of his throat and the sharp ridges of his collarbone.

She let him in, still startled to see his incongruous form in her cramped room. 

“Good Gods, this is a tiny room. How on earth does a giantess like you even exist in here?” His smile was playful, and it made her heart squeeze.

“Very good. Have you just come here to insult my size?” She said peevishly. She gave him an annoyed look. “You know, you shouldn’t be here...it’s not proper.”

“Says the young woman who joined the circus at fifteen and traveled around Westeros on her own.”

She shrugged. 

He looked at her, his eyes dark. “You’ve stopped our lessons, wench. Why is that? Have you found you don’t need me anymore? Has Robb Stark been giving you extra practice on his own?”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Surely you don’t think it’s my decision. The school changed my schedule. Didn’t they tell you?”

He gave an exhale of relief. “That damned Varys. He just said you did not require lessons any more, but I figured you must have been uncomfortable after –”

She felt herself blush. “Oh, that – that’s all forgotten, Jaime.”

He looked around and plopped himself onto her bed, lounging on it like a divan. He grinned, looking at her with a half feral expression.

She frowned at his fine figure sprawled on her bed. “That’s very forward of you.”

“You lack comfortable chairs in this cramped room, wench.” He picked up the books on her bedside table and looked at them. “How have you been passing the time without me to occupy it? Practicing with Robb Stark?”

She glowered at him. She sat in the rickety wooden chair beside her tiny desk. He continued, undeterred. “I saw your performance with him at the Spring recital. You looked like you were in love.” He paused, looking at her through his long eyelashes. “Are you?”

“It’s called acting. And I’m so glad our _singing_ made such an impression on you.”

He scoffed. “Brienne, Brienne. How beneath you to fish for compliments. You know very well you both sounded magnificent.” He fingered the sheets on her bed. He sniffed her pillow curiously, making her blush in mortification. “What have you been doing with your time away from me, your summer off?”

She sighed. “I mainly study songs on my own. It’s rather tedious, especially because I don’t really have access to a piano.”

He laughed, sat up, grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Then you must come practice with me at mine. We can help each other, now that our lessons have ended. I do want your thoughts on the compositions I’ve been working on. Truthfully, I’m bereft of inspiration without you. And I miss seeing your dour figure under my piano.”

There was nothing more that would please her than to assent, propriety be damned. Yet she paused. She leaned forward.

“Jaime – a little while ago, I was summoned by the Queen.” She heard a sharp intake of breath. “She said you had stopped going to her –”

“That’s right,” he said and sighed. “What else did she say? Did she threaten you?” His gaze was suddenly sharp.

“She had the wrong impression – of me – of us – she said you belonged to her and always will.” She looked down. “She was the one who ordered the school to stop the lessons with you.”

“She had no right, Brienne.” He rubbed his hands up and down his forehead and grimaced. “I’m sorry she’s dragged you into all this. She is very...possessive, doesn’t like anyone playing with her...uh…things.”

“Jaime,” she said softly. “I hope you know that you are no one’s thing or possession. You have a right to make your own choices.”

He stared at her, his mouth slightly ajar. He was looking at her as if he’s never seen anything so astonishing. He nodded, almost imperceptibly. “I’m beginning to realize that, wench.”

He stood up, straightened his jacket. “Will you call on me tomorrow afternoon, Brienne?”

She remembered the dangerous glint in the queen’s eyes, her unspoken warning about Jaime. She looked at Jaime’s hopeful, beautiful face.

“Yes. Of course I will.”


	7. Seven: Summer

Summer was upon them, and the sun blazed with glory, though the breezes from the ocean tempered its fervour. Her small attic room became close and stifling, and its little window did little to cool the air. Consequently, Brienne spent most of her time away from her chambers, taking walks in the park, sitting on the grounds of the conservatory garden. She even took up even more her old exercises and tumbles on the empty stage to pass the time, finding herself exhilarated at the familiar work of her muscles. 

Perhaps it was scandalous that most of her time was spent in Jaime’s apartment. Had she family or any relations at all, they would have warned and condemned her from spending so much time in an unmarried gentleman’s rooms, but she was alone in the world, and could not find a valid reason not to spend time with one of the only friends she had in the city. A woman with no connections, no family or protector? Most of the world assumed she was already ruined, especially when they learned she had been a performer in a circus. In any case, she was no pure maiden; life had thrown her about too roughly in its oceans. The Queen’s warning faded away from her memory as some petty jealousy which had no basis in fact. After all, it was no one’s business that they were good friends; besides, she very much liked Jaime – _more_ than liked him. She could barely admit to herself that she was falling in love with him – this was a secret she kept within herself, a lovely nest that she nurtured and fed but would only remain within the confines of her own heart.

The more time she spent with Jaime, the more she realized how alone he was – no friends or family visited, save his brother Tyrion, who would spend evenings drinking and complaining about machinations of court and government. Her brother looked at her oddly at times and loved to call her “The Blue Angel.” He loved to ask her about the circus and the acts and cheekily asked her if they could use one of small stature such as himself, alluding to the tradition of dwarves performing in the circus and being the target of jokes. She knew the brothers had a father, but he was away in Casterly for much of the year, though it seemed that Jaime was under much pressure to marry, have heirs, and prepare to become Lord of Casterly himself.

Jaime, it was apparent, had really broken things with the Queen, powerful as she may be. When in the past, he was often interrupted from their lessons by a summons and the appearance of the black carriage, he now ignored his lover’s letters, all of which were written on fine, thick paper; after a quick glance at its contents, he threw them in the fire. No carriages waited ominously outside his building.

Brienne taught him folk songs from Tarth that she grew up with, that her mother sang to her when she was a child. She told him about her father, who was the Evenstar, the local Lord, and who had tried to defend the island from its Targaryen invaders. He told her of growing up in Casterly Rock, motherless and with only Tyrion and Cersei – whose own parents perished at sea – to comfort and be comforted by. He told her of his father’s strict, distanced approach to raising his children. Jaime had never known a mother’s love – he did not remember any lullabies she sang to him, though he remembered that she loved him and the growing babe in her belly that would turn out to be Tyrion. His mother’s death left a void in him that he had tried ever since to fill.

Jaime was industriously writing compositions, and she listened to his tentative fingerings on the piano, repeating a musical phrase until it transformed into something wonderful. Eventually, she became his scribe of sorts, marking down notes on music papers when inspiration struck. His initial instinct was to compose light little tunes to delight, like the recent compositions which he created earlier that year for the Queen – these had been popular and immensely successful. But Brienne encouraged him to access his feelings of sadness and anger and grief just as he had inspired her to do, and she was delighted that the music he was creating had movement and depth of feeling. He continued to teach her the nuances of classic opera songs and works, and she very much benefited from his classical music education.

“Are you asleep, wench?” Jaime said, sliding down to the floor from his seat on the piano bench and joining her on the rug, under the instrument. “Did my piano playing finally lure you into irresistible somnolence?” He lay down on his side, propping himself up on an elbow.

She sighed, still lost within the depths of his playing. “Not even you are going to ruin your own piano playing for me with your incessant nattering, Jaime Lannister.”

He grinned, looking at her with affection. Idly, he gently stroked her hair, playing with the curl that had gotten loose from her simple chignon. 

“You know, you do look like an angel. Whoever named you, named you well.”

“Do angels in your universe have crooked noses and plain faces?” She let out a self-mocking laugh.

Jaime shook his head. “Gods, you’re infuriating, woman.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “It’s just, you’re so pale, but your skin has a light in it – I can’t explain. And your eyes – they are indescribably blue, incomparable to anything I’ve ever seen. Your eyes are godsdamned beautiful, Brienne. Surely not of this world. Heavenly is more the word for them.”

She was sure whatever paleness he was speaking of had been replaced by bright red. His eyes were calm and still upon her, and his face much too close. She felt a flicker – gods, more than a flicker – of longing, a surge of affection for one who seemed to see her in a way that no one else had ever seen her. She was suddenly too warm, her whole body run through with a heat. She laughed a little half-heartedly to brush off those particular feelings, and got up quickly, nearly smacking her head on the bottom of the piano.

“Oof! Be careful, my blue-eyed angel.” He scrambled up behind her, giving her a puzzled look.

She tried to distract herself by looking out the window. 

He looked at her, bemused. “King’s Landing is utterly stifling this time of year, is it not? I wish we could get out of here, to the country perhaps.”

“This is my first summer in this city, or have you forgotten? It’s much better than Dorne or Old Town this time of year. It’s sweltering down there." She huffed, looking down at him. "You’d be a puddle.”

Jaime looked at her with keen interest. “I always forget you’ve travelled all over. You’ve lived a lifetime it seems, before we’ve even met.”

“A couple of lifetimes at least,” she smiled slyly. 

“Hmmm.” His look back at her was quite fond and made her insides warm.

“There is that Stark house party in a fortnight,” Brienne said thoughtfully. She had not thought to go – the idea of meeting new people was frightening to her, and she could not imagine how boisterous the Stark children would be, after meeting Robb.

Jaime smiled slowly. “My invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. I best remind Catelyn Stark of the tremendous oversight.”

“You weren’t invited?” 

“I’m sure that was a deliberate ploy on the part of Robb Stark,” Jaime said darkly. 

Brienne threw a cushion at him. “Why is it that you always think Robb has designs on me?”

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you, wench.”

“We’re friends! Like you and I are friends!”

This did not seem to lighten his mood. He scowled.

She threw another cushion at him and finally he broke into a laugh, gathering as many pillows and little pillows he could carry in his considerable span and threw them at her, giggling with merriment. This, of course, initiated a vicious pillow fight that involved tickling and pulling that left both of them gasping for air. They giggled and laughed until their ribs hurt. Brienne had never felt such pure happiness before, as a flood of affection rushed through her. 

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Winter House was a large country estate north of the city and was surrounded by dense forest, named after the ancestral Stark estate up North called Winterfell. It took nearly a day to get there by carriage, but as soon as they left the city, the air was remarkably fresh and sweet. The trees and the elevation cooled the air, and the green that flooded her eyes revived her.

Jaime was able to orchestrate not just invitations for himself, but his brother as well. However, it was overwhelming to be in the presence of not one, but two Lannisters in a closed carriage. Tyrion constantly looked at her with amused eyes, as he prattled on about the history of the sights they were passing. Jaime, of course, made inappropriate jests about every single thing they passed, like a tall, bulbous boulder. Or a set of two round mountains. Both of them talked incessantly. Brienne spent much of the journey pretending to be asleep; two sets of teasing, clever eyes were entirely too much to deal with.

The Starks welcomed them with open arms; the room they put her in was elegant and overlooked the lawn and had a veranda attached. There were a few other guests beside them, but they were mainly older, and friends with Mistress Catelyn and Lord Ned Stark. Robb had told her about his large family, but she didn’t anticipate how overwhelming the presence of all five Stark children, a ward, and a cousin would be. It made her heart ache to see the younger children, and she felt the magnitude of missing her sisters and brother. Her sisters too had been innocent and full of life, before they slowly wasted away, fever and nightmares of war plaguing them until they perished, lives entirely unlived. Even now, she could not bear think of Galadon and the cruel way in which he was killed, his blood staining the earth.

Robb and Sansa, his beautiful, red-haired sister, arranged a picnic lunch in the meadows far away from the house. Blankets were spread on the grass, and there was a huge array of food and drink. Tyrion was especially pleased that there was plenty of wine. Along with Robb and Sansa, there was tiny Arya who was fifteen, and of course Jaime joined them enthusiastically. Sansa, already charming at sixteen years old, was besotted at first sight with Jaime and his beauty. She blushed at his every glance, and offered him drinks and food and tittered at him like a proper girl. Brienne looked on with amusement, but could not help feeling that Sansa was the kind of girl – the kind of beauty that someone like Jaime should fall for. The object of her affection, of course, was used to all sorts of female attention, and did not even bat an eye. He looked at Sansa, interacted with her politely, but saved his merriment and japes for Brienne.

Sansa looked away into the distance and let out a huff of annoyance, staring at her little sister who was apparently trying to balance upside down on her hands. Jon, their cousin, looked on anxiously and tried his best to catch the girl in case she fell over. Sansa, revealing her exasperation, yelled at their sister. “Arya, stop fooling around. We’re in company.”

Her little sister ignored her and Jon threw them a worried look from his distance.

Brienne laughed and ran up to join the sister. Jon, who was about her age, grinned, a warm smile brightening up his whole face.

“Are you trying to do a handstand, Arya?” 

The girl fell on her back with an ooomf, as Jon watched helplessly with a panicked expression. She nodded, looking curiously at Brienne.

“Alright, I’ll help you.” The girl nodded and planted her hands on the dirt. “Here,” Brienne said. “It’s all about balance and the correct distribution of weight. Try balancing with your forearms first. I’ll hold you.”

The girl placed her forearms on the ground as Brienne helped her legs up, as Jon looked on anxiously. “Start with the foundation of balance. Once you’re comfortable with that, you can try it with just your hands.” The girl quite easily balanced upside down for a few moments, her smile turning to a laugh and starting to unbalance her.

Arya let out an unladylike-like whoop of celebration, and plopped down on the grass. She looked up at Brienne, an expression of curiosity on her face.

“You know how to do one? Let’s see!” Her voice was excited, her elfin face eager.

“Now Arya –” Jon said, trying to intervene. “Remember your manners.”

She laughed merrily and hit her cousin on the arm. “Jon, you idiot.” She turned back to Brienne. “So, how about it, Brienne? Show me what you know, so you can teach me.”

The girl reminded Brienne of herself before her sorrows, except much more rebellious and tomboyish. She winked and grinned at the girl, and tucked the back of her skirt to her belt to protect her modesty and approximate the effect of trousers. An entertainer never passed up the opportunity to show her wares, Oberyn used to say.

She started with a handstand, then moved to an upside down splits position. When she ended up on her feet she did a little tumble of somersault and turns, ending back in the handstand. It was all very routine, things she could have done in her sleep when she was in the circus.

There were whoops and applause when she finished, with Arya the most boisterous of all. Meanwhile, the rest of the party had gathered around them. Looks of shock and awe were evident on every face. Brienne threw her head back and laughed, thrilled to have surprised them and gotten that kind of attention from the group. She found she did not mind the attention in such a welcoming, awed crowd. She did entertain scores of people night after night in the circus, after all.

“Where on earth did you learn how to do that?” Robb asked, his face astonished and utterly fascinated, as he looked her up and down, as if seeing her anew.

She shook her head. “When I was a kid, a bit. Then a few years ago, some friends taught me.”

“What, they don’t know you were in the circus?” Tyrion asked, surprised. Jaime gave his little brother an admonishing look.

“The circus?” Sansa and Arya screeched loudly, now reverted to being little girls with stars in their eyes. Jon looked on, impressed.

Tyrion grinned mischievously at her, tilting his head in inquiry. Sighing, she nodded.

The small man rubbed his hands in glee. “Well, you happen to be looking at The Blue Angel, formerly star equestrienne and warbler for the Dornish Circus of Dreams.”

Jon started, his dark eyes wide. “Wait – what – Brienne, _you_ were in that circus? You were The Blue Angel? I saw you perform two years ago up North at Winterfell. You were incredible.” He shook his head in disbelief, a broad smile lighting up his face.

Robb stared and roared with laughter. “Jon, you had a poster of her in your rooms, as I recall.”

Jon blushed a deep red and nodded shyly.

Jaime looked on in merriment, admiration in his eyes. Brienne couldn’t help but blush, conscious of the chaotic bits of hair that had come loose from her bun, the messiness of her dress. She untucked her skirt and tried to smooth out her unruly hair.

“Well, that was a lifetime ago,” Brienne said. “But Tyrion was the one who suggested I study music after he heard me sing during a performance.”

“She was magnificent.” Tyrion said. “But Brienne, I must correct you in something. It was Jaime, not I, who insisted I visit you and suggest you audition for the conservatory. It wasn’t my idea at all, to have you come to the operatic stage. It hadn’t even occurred to me.”

She turned to Jaime in surprise. He shrugged. “I had other commitments that day, and asked Tyrion to pay you a visit.”

“So I have you to thank if my singing career flops,” Brienne joked, smiling at him, suddenly flattered and grateful.

Jaime nodded, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You could always return to the circus. I wonder sometimes if you left your true calling, given the little show you just gave us.”

The evening was boisterous, with the Starks loud and rambunctious during dinner, contrasted with the rather more serious Catelyn and Ned Stark and their older guests. Brienne had to fight the sadness that was threatening to encroach upon her – this was the first time she had seen a true, loving family, and the truth that her own family had all perished was hard to forget. 

When the men and women reconvened in the drawing room, attention was quickly turned to music. She and Robb sang together, their voices melding harmoniously. Not one to be upstaged, Jaime played a difficult piano piece, displaying his virtuoso piano skills. Sansa practically swooned over him as she draped herself on the piano and helped him turn his music pages, sitting a touch too close for a proper young lady who had not yet had her first season.

But the best part of Winterfell were the stables. Brienne spent most of her week with the horses, riding every day, gaining back her old confidence on the saddle. Sometimes Jaime joined her, sometimes Rob or Jon or Arya.

“Seeing you here, I can almost imagine how you were growing up on Tarth,” Jaime observed, his head cocked roguishly, his mount on his white stallion sure and confident.

She gave him a disapproving look, making him cackle.

“I had imagined you sometimes, emerging fully formed from the sea like a goddess. Or being birthed from a volcano. Do they have volcanoes on Tarth?”

“Utterly ridiculous, you are.” She dismounted, leading her horse back into the stables. Jaime did the same and followed her with his own horse.

“Was your father a god? The Warrior perhaps? Was your mother one of the mer people, come on land for a mere season?” Jaime followed her, his voice playful.

She ignored him.

“I shall write you a song, wench. About the myths of your life. It shall be a grand opera.”

She sighed. “Why don’t you go bother Sansa? It seems she’ll be much more receptive to japes than me.”

He made a face. “Sansa’s just a little girl. Besides, you are so much more fun to provoke. You get this little wrinkle in the middle of your forehead.”

She glared. Jaime laughed.

She started brushing the brown coat of her lovely mare. The horse nuzzled its muzzle into Brienne’s neck, making her smile. She rested her forehead on its neck, breathing in quietly.

She felt Jaime move behind her, his hand on her horse’s withers, stroking it softly.

“Are you alright, Brienne?” His voice lost its teasing tone, his voice soft. She felt his hand lightly touch her shoulder, slowly stroking the back of her neck.

She turned around and nodded; Jaime was unexpectedly close, his hand still on her shoulder. “I know I say impossible things sometimes, wench –”

She shook her head. “No, Jaime. Don’t apologize – you were only trying to amuse me, but being here makes me both sad and happy, strange as it may seem.”

“I know, wench. You miss your family. The Starks are too goddamn happy,” he murmured, and he slipped his hand down from her shoulder and down to her back and drew her into his embrace. He felt him nuzzle into her neck, feeling the warmth of his skin and the beginnings of stubble on his chin. A fondness and gratefulness washed over her, as she felt her heart expand. She hugged him back, as her arms encircled his broad, muscular back and she let herself feel it for a minute, that overwhelming affection and yes, love that threatened to flood every time he was near, that she usually kept under wraps, controlled and tight. She knew her growing fondness for him was a forbidden thing, yet she was glad for it, even if it was temporary.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, pulling back so he could see her face. His eyes were green and tender and seemed brand new to the world. He rested his warm lips on her cheeks, breathing her in. Then he kissed her lips, ever so softly. A gasp escaped her lips, and she looked at him with surprise.

“Gods, you’ve got the eyes of an angel,” he murmured, then kissed her again, his lips softly moving against hers, sending shivers up and down her back. She sighed and kissed him back, her mouth pressing and nipping at his.

When they drew back, Jaime gave her a gentle smile, as he drew her arm around his. “Come, my lady. Let’s go back. We wouldn’t want Tyrion to be left all alone with the Starks. They’d likely eat him up.”

The short walk from the stables was lovely as she felt Jaime smiling next to her, walking slowly, squeezing her arm at intervals. There was no real need for speech. The looks of affection between them sufficed. Brienne knew she was flushed; her blood was thrumming, and she was in that moment, simply happy.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The week after they returned from Winterfell was lazy and perfect. The heat had eased a little in King’s Landing, and her days were spent with Jaime in his apartments in warmth and music, with nothing else to occupy their time. They existed in the sparkling moment of the present, and Brienne felt young and carefree for the first time in her life. Jaime made her laugh in ways she’s never had with anyone, and he looked at her as if he saw her worth, as if he admired her despite her unattractive appearance.

There was a tender tentativeness in this stage of their relationship; neither of them wanted to define it or talk about it, or go too far in any direction. So it felt completely natural when they would play the piano side by side and stop to kiss at the end of every song. Or when Jaime joined her on the floor underneath the piano and pulled her into a loose embrace. Their caresses were chaste, their kisses stirred their blood and had the flavour of wanting. One of them would pull back when things got too heated. It was a precarious balance, but both of them wanted it to remain as they are: content and perfect.

Their harmonious balancing act was suddenly knocked down by a demanding lock by the door and the unexpected appearance of Minister Peter Baelish, who barged into the living room – despite Peck’s protests and best efforts to physically hold the man back – just as Jaime was pulling Brienne close in an embrace.

Jaime stood up, while Brienne’s face blazed bright red as she frantically rearranged her skirts.

“Baelish, what is the meaning of this?” Jaime’s voice was brittle and dismissive.

The slim man looked at them, one to the other, his face placid. “Mr. Lannister. You are needed at court.” His cool eyes flicked over to Brienne. “His majesty is dying.”

She gasped in shock. Jaime looked at her, panicked and green eyes blazing. “Brienne –”

She nodded. “Go.”

Minister Baelish smiled at her in apology and nodded. They left in a hurry, leaving Brienne stunned and feeling like her life was going to be thrown into chaos yet again.

News quickly spread throughout the city about the King’s hunting accident involving a boar, and how he had been clinging on to dear life for the past few days. The churches were packed with the devout, all of them praying for the King’s swift recovery.

A week passed where she did not hear from Jaime, and still the King lingered in his sickbed. 

A shiny black carriage stopped on the street as she was walking back from a park. It opened and the trim, neat person of Minister Baelish opened the door.

“Miss Tarth. May I ask you for a moment of your time?” 

She hesitated.

“It’s unfortunately quite urgent.”

She got in, and stared at the man’s obsequious, smiling face. His eyes, however, were sharp and intelligent despite his ingratiating expression.

“How is the King?” Brienne ventured, curiosity getting the better of her.

He looked at her and leaned forward. “I must tell you this in complete confidence, but it appears that the King does not have long in this world. His wounds are festering, and nothing can be done, despite intervention from the best Maesters. It is only a matter of time.”

“Oh. I’m truly sorry to hear that.” She didn’t know the king, but she remembered his generosity the one time they met. He seemed unbelievably strong and healthy, handsome and hardy; it was difficult to believe such a strong man should succumb to the arms of death. She still had his brooch that she hid away in one of her drawers.

Minister Baelish let out a mournful sigh. “As you can imagine, the court is in disarray. The royal family in particular is distraught. The Queen is out of her mind with grief, and it is all too fortunate that her cousin Jaime Lannister has been steadfast by her majesty’s side at every turn. They are very much inseparable – the queen is lucky to have such family support, of course. Tywin Lannister is also coming back to the city to be of use, be that as it may.” 

Brienne’s mouth went dry, and she remembered the shadows of Jaime and Cersei in an embrace. How beautiful they looked together, the perfect matched pair. She swallowed, schooling her expression into neutrality.

He gave her a sympathetic glance and hesitated. Brienne felt her hands grow cold.

“Her Grace is, as you can imagine, feeling a great deal of pressure. Many people do...irrational things out of grief.” He cleared his throat. “That is to say, Miss Tarth, Queen Cersei can be angry and is not one for forgiveness or letting things go, even on this momentous occasion.”

She stared at him. Minister Baelish was clearly uncomfortable at what he was going to say. Yet he forged ahead. “Her majesty is upset that you defied her instructions...to limit seeing her cousin, as she had previously warned you to do. It has recently come to her majesty’s attention that you went to the Stark country house with him and Mr. Tyrion Lannister, and you have been spending an excessive amount of time at his apartments, despite the potential scandal to your person and reputation.”

He leaned forward, frowning. “As you are aware, the court is a major supporter of the Music Conservatory – in fact, the school would not survive were it not for the generous patronage of the Royal family.” Mr. Baelish stroked his small beard thoughtfully. “It pains me to say that the Queen has asked the board to prohibit you from continuing your studies at the school. And under such immense pressure, the school has reluctantly agreed.”

Brienne felt the floor give from under her, and she was immediately lost. Her head was spinning.

“I’m very sorry. You have done nothing wrong to merit such treatment,” the minister said, looking concerned. “The Queen can be volatile, and when it comes to her family, she can be very...possessive.”

She nodded, her mouth dry. 

“As such, you must vacate your rooms in two weeks, as the scholarship and board that you earned will no longer be applicable.”

The air in the carriage felt close, her lungs felt tight. She made a move to leave.

“Miss Tarth. I again apologize; I did not want to be the bearer of such bad news.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “If you require any assistance at all – whether in accommodation or perhaps looking at other schools – please do not hesitate to contact me. I will make it my personal mission to be of use to you in this difficult time.”

She nodded, smiling at him blankly and slipping the card into her pocketbook. All she felt was relief as she stepped out of the oppressive carriage. A breeze came through, ruffling her hair and skirts. She was reminded of Tarth and all of a sudden a wave of profound homesickness hit her. She longed to see the blue waters, the mountains and green meadows of her island. She wanted to be home. For a wild moment she remembered the deed to the estate, how the land was presumably there for her if she ever returned, now that the war had been over for years. But she knew that Tarth was no longer home to her, just as King’s Landing would no longer be home to her. The city had embraced her for a time, gave her just enough happiness to make her suffering more acute when it was all taken away. She was still young, but what she knew of life was that it could be unpredictable in the most wonderful way, but also unutterably cruel, and she had sipped the most bitter of its draughts.

She rambled slowly back to the conservatory and up the stairs to her little attic room, imagining that she would have to say goodbye to this place very soon. She thought that perhaps she could find a place to live or some employment in the city. It was a possibility, but not an option if she wanted to continue to pursue her musical training. No. The only option was to leave the city, go somewhere else to study. Perhaps rejoin the circus – if they would still have her back.

The news of her expulsion from the school initially stunned her, but she was not, in the end, shocked. Everything she cared about had been taken away from her in life, she realized. That this new peace she had found would be the next thing wrenched from her life was no surprise at all. She could not even bear to think of Jaime and his friendship, how they had so carefully tiptoed toward something more than friendship in the past couple of weeks. How she was so utterly happy to have been in his arms, have his lips against hers, the steadiness of his touches. She had been too happy, she thought; it was inevitable that it would not last.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Brienne had begun to put away her things into her large carpet bag when there was a knock on her door. She frowned, looking at the clock at the late hour; she was already in her nightgown, and it was much too hot to put on a robe. Nevertheless, she shivered in anticipation. There was only one person who had ever come to her door.

Indeed, it was Jaime, looking as if he hadn’t slept in days, dark circles under his eyes, a tightness in his jaw. The dim light of her lantern only highlighted the shadows of his face. Something inside her softened at the sight of him.

“Jaime!” She ushered him in and made him sit on the bed. He looked like he could fall over at any moment. She handed him a glass of water and sat next to him. 

“Are you alright?” She said softly.

He lowered his head. “The King is dead.” 

“Gods.”

He sighed. “It happened a few days ago, but it hasn’t been announced. They’re all trying to figure out the succession. I had to get away – those bloody walls – I couldn’t stand being there any longer, and I didn’t know where else I could go where they couldn’t find me.”

“Of course.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You were right to come here.”

“It’s been a nightmare. The whole palace feels like a tomb.” He looked at her mournfully, guilt in his eyes. “And my cousin – the Queen – has needed me.”

Brienne remembered Peter Baelish’s report of how Cersei and Jaime were inseparable and something inside her withered and burned. Of course, she was a fool to have thought that perhaps she and Jaime could have had something together. How could anything compare to a love you’ve known since childhood? How could her ugly, freakish self ever compare to the ravishing and seductive beauty of the Queen? She had been deluding herself, of this she was beginning to be more and more sure. A thudding in her brain suddenly sharpened into a revelation. Now that the King was dead, Queen Cersei was again free, and would be free to marry Jaime after a requisite mourning period. They would be together, as Jaime had always dreamed. She tried to steady her breath.

“I’m sorry, Jaime.” He stared at her as she said the hollow words. “He was your family.”

He shook his head. “You have no idea how many times I wished him dead.” He choked out.

“For Cersei.” The hollowness inside her grew.

He nodded. “Gods. It’s a mess. They are readying the crown for Stannis Baratheon, Robert’s middle brother. His younger brother Renly is contesting the claim. My father is coming to town. And Cersei….”

He looked at her, his eyes alarmed. “Cersei says she’s with child. She is telling everyone it is the King’s.” He took a deep breath, and looked at her pleadingly. “But Brienne, she’s said privately to me that the child is mine…”

Brienne felt a black hole open up at her feet.

He looked at her with wild eyes. “I haven’t been with Cersei for almost three months, Brienne...but she wants me to be...by her side. She has promised that we would marry in time. I wasn’t able to say anything. I just ran here.”

There. It was all clear now, all laid out, both of their futures. Whatever lives they had tried to make for themselves were all pushed into the churning waters of history and fate. If Jaime had believed he could get away from his cousin and their love, he was clearly mistaken. If Brienne thought that she could have a new life as an opera singer instead of one of an orphan without a home, _she_ was mistaken. She would have to leave King’s Landing very soon. Jaime would return to Cersei’s arms; perhaps he would be able to marry her and take care of their secret child. The child who would one day be King if it was a boy.

Jaime stared at her, miserable and exhausted. She felt such pity for him, how he had tried to forge his own path and failed. She knew that he felt responsible for the child and would do likely do anything to be a father, if only in secret. Her heart hurt at his predicament and she ached for her own selfish self – she was ignorant to believe that a man like Jaime could ever love the likes of her. She believed that he had some affection for her, of course, but not like the way that she loved him. Not like the way he loved Cersei.

“I feel trapped,” Jaime confessed, his voice breaking. 

Her heart squeezed and without even thinking, she drew him into an embrace. He was warm – too warm, but immediately his arms went around her. In his embrace like this, she could almost pretend that the King was alive, that Cersei wasn’t desperate in trying to consolidate her power and control, that it was just her and Jaime, with their music and a warm, bright future ahead of them.

All of a sudden, she was aware that this would be the last time she would be Jaime’s arms – likely the last time she would see him again. She felt his breath on her neck, his hands moving on her back, so comforting, and she was filled with a desperate want. She made a decision.

She cupped his face, and his eyes searched hers, all green and vulnerable and as if asking a question. She answered the question by kissing him softly, and it was as if whatever barrier or hesitation between them dissolved. He responded forcefully to her kisses, his tongue licking her bottom lip for entrance and then touching her tongue and exploring the warmth of her mouth. His kisses felt electric, making her shake with desire. He could not be close enough. She wanted him closer still. She tasted his neck and he moaned, throwing his head back. His hands caressed the shape of her through her nightgown, and she pressed her chest against his, breathless and excited; he was warm under her hands, and it was as if he melted into her skin. Hands fumbled with his clothing, and she slipped off her nightgown. She unfastened the buttons of his trousers. A cool breeze caressed them; their naked bodies were bathed in the light of dim lamp and observed by the moon that could be seen outside her tiny window.

Slowly, Jaime lowered her down on her narrow bed, which was so small that both of them could hardly fit. She marvelled at the magnificence of Jaime’s body – his strong arms, his golden chest with a slight sprinkling of hair, the muscles of his stomach, his muscular thighs. The insistent and large hardness which was pointing up right at her. 

He looked entranced as he kissed her breasts, her nipples, and licked his way up and down her body. But she was impatient, her need for him was overwhelming. She squeezed his cock and stroked him up and down, causing him to groan loudly. She wanted to relieve the hot ache between her thighs, she wanted him close and closer. She opened her legs, allowing him to settle between her.

Jaime looked at her, slightly stunned. “Brienne, are you sure?”

She kissed him, half drowning in want, half determined to have him just this once. “Yes. I want you, Jaime. I don’t want to think about after – I just want you now.”

He hesitated. “You haven’t done this before – Brienne, maybe we shouldn’t –”

“Jaime. I want you to be my first. I want this memory of you. Of tonight. Please. No matter what happens.” She was desperate for him, wet for him, and could feel the effort of him restraining himself. She wanted that restraint all gone, she wanted him. Brienne kissed him, squeezed his cock, making him moan helplessly.

“Please, Jaime.” He nodded, his eyes consumed with desire, all caution gone. 

He let out a long, tortured groan as he slowly sank his cock into her a few inches. “Gods,” he gasped, “You feel… Brienne. So tight. Warm.” She gasped at the feel of him, of being stretched and slowly filled.

He pulled out slowly, then plunged back in, a little further. He kissed her as he finally thrust himself to the hilt, moaning lowly. She felt a sharp ache, which dulled as he stilled inside her, as he allowed her to adjust. She tried to steady her breath and ignore the pain. He kissed her, his eyes dark and burning. She almost couldn’t bear the way he looked at her.

He was inside, full and throbbing. It was her and Jaime and the moonlight and somehow everything in that moment made sense. Brienne nodded and wrapped her legs around his waist, taking him even deeper. He groaned, and started moving, at first slowly, but faster as some hunger took a hold of him. She felt unbelievable – stretched, full, all at once encompassing. She ran her hands down his spine and squeezed his backside as he moved above her. Bursts of pleasure shot through her each time he drove his cock into her, and she felt her hips bucking in response. As she began to feel a pleasure build within her in waves, Jaime suddenly gasped, his face twisted, and he drove into her desperately. She could feel his cock swell as his release crashed over him. He was beautiful in his desperation, how he held her gaze has he came. A warmth flooded inside her, as he collapsed heavily on top of her, panting. She was amazed to have seen his pleasure, to have been the one who rendered him to rapture. He was untouchable in his beauty – warm and gleaming with sweat, looking at her as if she just gave him the world. She wanted to remember this moment forever.

They slept for a few hours on her narrow bed. Jaime left in the middle of the night, worrying about guards looking for him and finding him in her rooms, worrying what Cersei would do if she found out. Brienne thought he looked at her as if he loved her when he said good bye. He said he would contact her when everything settled down. She couldn’t bear to tell him that she would be long gone if he ever decided to return and visit her. He kissed her and kissed her, and she kissed him back with too much desperation. This was farewell. Brienne tasted her swallowed tears.

When Jaime left, Brienne felt strangely happy. She was happy to have had that one moment with him that she could carry with her all her life. For that moment, they were one, united, no matter what was in store for either of them going forward. She even slept well, not even minding the too warm room that smelled of sex.

Brienne did not hear him in the next few days, and was not surprised; a part of her had hoped that he would run away from Cersei and choose her, but she knew that could never be. The situation was all too big for them. Jaime would eventually marry his Queen, his true love, become a father of sorts to his child, and that would be it.

The King’s death was announced and the realm went into mourning. Stannis was declared King, and Cersei became Dowager Queen. Of a child, there was yet no announcement.

Brienne’s heart was broken, but she had the memory of those beautiful few hours with Jaime. It was enough. It had to be enough. She packed the rest of her things, for she had needed to take very little with her when she left. She had a small suitcase full of sheet music, and her carpet bag of clothes and personal items. As usual, her money and her few jewels she carried in the sewn pocket inside her bodice. She slipped a sheathed dagger in her skirt pocket. She left King’s Landing, intending never to return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the first half of the story. A break, then updates resume next Thursday.
> 
> At this halfway mark, want to thank you for reading and giving this rather unusual story a chance. I particularly want to give special thanks to those who have commented. Your support means the world. ❤️


	8. Eight: The Brownstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few chapters will be posted this week.

She had not thought of Jaime and her time in King’s Landing in the intervening years – or, at least, she had _tried_ not to think about it. Instead, she had looked ahead and focused on her singing career. However, Brienne could not help it when she woke up in the middle of the night with a heart aching with memories of Jaime; she could not help the dreams in which he smiled at her and kissed her and tumbled her into the soft grass, wildflowers all around them. She dreamed of the glimmering blue waters of Tarth, the sunshine, of Jaime, golden and smiling and always kissing her. In her waking hours, she wanted to forget, and succeeded in forgetting. But she was now learning that going forward necessarily meant going backwards at the same time.

Jaime’s current townhouse was near the edge of town, across from the botanical gardens and park, a large and well-appointed brownstone. It was in a different neighbourhood than the one he had lived in five years earlier: much quieter, less fashionable, and surrounded by large, old trees, which were starting to sprout tender green leaves in preparation for spring.

In Braavos, she had heard – even when she hadn’t wanted to hear anything about the royal family or the Lannisters – how well he had done for himself as a pianist and composer. Unsurprisingly, the public swooned for his beauty, and his reputation as a virtuoso pianist traveled far and wide. His music, it was said, seduced women, made lust sizzle in their veins, and made them fall in bed with the nearest man, husband or no husband. His talent was undeniable, and he gained the reputation as being one of the best concert pianists who ever lived. Even a few of his compositions – nocturnes and piano sonatas – made their way to Essos in the form of sheet music; however, she had not bought them or heard them performed. It would have been much too painful – that particular life belonged to another woman altogether. Yet here she was, in front of his elegant brownstone, being received by his manservant, a tall, brooding man with dark hair who looked at her strangely.

The man gave her ensemble another curious glance, but led her to the drawing room, where Jaime was sitting at his grand piano. It was morning, and the sunlight set alight the shades of gold in his hair, which was loose and wild and long enough to graze his shoulders. He looked like a vision from the gods. As always, his beauty caught her by surprise. He looked up, startled, and stood up. His green eyes blazed in recognition, the razor-sharp gaze looking her up and down.

“You are the mistress of transformation, it seems,” he said, coming toward her, his tone much too seductive for the morning light. 

“Well, in this day and age, apparently young women who visit men’s rooms alone are still frowned upon in Westeros.” She grinned, removing her cape and hat and setting them on an armchair. “One of the advantages of my build I’ve found is how easy it is to pass myself off as a man.”

“I like it,” Jaime said, looking pointedly up and down her trouser-clad legs. “Do you often dress in men’s clothes, Brienne?” He poured tea into two cups and handed her one.

“I have developed the habit, yes. I like my freedom – and you men have an excess of it.” She sat down in a leather armchair and crossed her legs. His eyes followed her every movement. Brienne felt her heart beating much too fast.

“What happened to Peck?” Asked Brienne, searching for a diverting line of conversation; she remembered liking the young man a great deal. His new man was large and silent but brought in the tea with consummate professionalism.

Jaime smiled. “Pia happened to Peck. He met her and they married, and moved to a village near Maidenpool. I’ve had manservant after another since him. This one’s been here for a few weeks. A record of sorts.”

“Oh, I’m glad for Peck. He was always kind.”

He sat opposite her, staring. They sat in silence, sipping tea, Brienne’s mind all of a sudden going blank.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” He finally said, clearing this throat. “I thought, after last time, that you were done with me.”

She tried to suppress flashbacks of his lips on her skin, him plunging into her. It had been shocking and sudden, the way they fell into each other in her dressing room, the hungry way in which they devoured each other, after an absence of five years. She swallowed, her mouth dry. “I didn’t think I would come either. But I found your card at the bottom of my pocketbook. I suppose I was curious. We didn’t get a chance to talk –” Brienne wryly said.

“No. That we didn’t,” he replied lightly, his thumb rubbing the back of his hand.

She looked around the apartment, to the white walls with intricately carved moldings, the large windows which overlooked the park, the shiny parquet floors and the well-appointed furniture. There was an ornate looking piano with inlay wood and carvings in one corner of the room. His rooms were lovely but seemed a little smaller than his old apartment.

“I’m surprised you moved.”

“Well, I prefer a quieter environment. It’s much more peaceful here – I rather got tired of the people and the bustle of that neighbourhood. Always dodging the fashionable crowd.”

“It’s quite a bit more discreet.” Her voice was light, but he frowned at her words regardless.

“She doesn’t come here, you know, the Dowager Queen. Cersei.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You wondered.” He shrugged his shoulders but observed her every movement, his eyes like malachite. “I was telling you the truth when I last saw you. I haven’t been with her for years.”

She hesitated. She knew that King Stannis was a remarkably stable monarch, though he had a reputation for being a little pedantic; yet his daughter was set to succeed him, contrary to traditional succession rules that only set preference to male heirs. 

“What happened to – to – the child. Cersei’s?” And yours, she wanted to add.

Jaime frowned and sighed, looking at her in puzzlement. “Of course, you hadn’t heard. There was no child. She lied to the court, to make sure she had leverage to negotiate her position for a few months. She got quite a few concessions when everyone thought she was carrying the heir to the throne.”

“Ah.”

“She lives a very comfortable life, with a grand townhouse by the Sept of Baelor. She also has a country estate. She sees whom she likes, fuck whom she likes.” He shrugged as if to dismiss his thoughts, but his tone was regretful and bitter. 

She carefully measured her words. “She’s free, you’re free. Surely there’s nothing stopping you now, Jaime.” She looked at him, remembering his attachment despite his every desire to break away. How Cersei had apparently promised that they would marry.

“I can’t stand her,” he blurted out, his face contorted with frustration. “Brienne, I haven’t loved her for years – I suspect even before you left. What she did to you was unforgivable.”

She stared at him, his flashing eyes, the sadness that was etched on his face.

“I know I was deluded when it came to Cersei – I loved her for too long, perhaps out of habit, perhaps out of some strange need or loyalty I did not even question. I realized that I didn’t really know who she was; she wasn’t who I thought she was, and as you know, I felt like there was no way out for the latter years of our relationship.” His hands tightly gripped the arms of his chair. “But when I met you, when we became...friends, I saw a different way I could be. You made me want to be a better man, do better things.”

Brienne’s eyes softened as she regarded his wide eyes that shone with a golden and green light. Again she felt a similar softening inside her chest, the loveliness and heart of this man in front of her. “I’m glad, Jaime. That you managed to free yourself. But that is because of your strength, not mine. I did nothing.”

He shook his head in disagreement, smiling at her. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself. She felt that strange pull between them – she yearned to be closer to him, touch him, feel his body against hers. 

Brienne got up and made her way to the piano. Her eyes flicked over the papers, and pens on the surface of the instrument.

“Did I interrupt you working? Are you composing a new work?”

Jaime’s smile was languorous as he leaned back in his seat. “I was working a little. Practicing. I am ruminating on something new, yes, but ideas are still incubating at this point.”

Brienne tilted her head. “You know, I have not heard any of your new music? Of course you have not toured in Essos and my piano skills are not good enough to attempt the sheet music. Still, your name is famous, even out East.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, good to know.” He got up suddenly, came toward her and sat at the piano. “I must remedy your ignorance of my music, wench.”

Brienne flinched at the old nickname, but smiled. She was relieved that there would be some respite now from talking. Ever since she entered his home, she felt wound up, tighter than pulled wire. Even after what happened in her dressing room, there was still too much distance between them, too many words that could not be said.

“You’re not going under the piano this time?” he teased, his mouth breaking into a smile.

She shook her head. “Habits of a different person,” she said simply. 

She loved him best when he was at the piano, how he sat up straight, his arms loose and relaxed, the curve of the back of his neck and shoulders as he leaned forward. His long, agile fingers. How his body swayed with the music, as if moving to an unheard rhythm of the cosmos. He played a slow nocturne that sounded like the morning blooming and the sun lazily peeking out of the clouds. The rolling waves of the music washed over her and she felt the hope of the notes, the beauty of the melodies. A part of her was conscious of how much he watched her reaction to his music, but his looks hardly registered. She was taken unawares by the beauty of his composition, the divinity of the sounds pouring out from him, and the beauty of this man before her. Jaime must have played for hours, for the next thing she knew, the sun had reached its zenith and it was afternoon. 

Inexplicably, she was standing next to the piano, as Jaime got up from the instrument and moved close to her. His eyes were bright, and their light seemed to pierce the innermost core of her. There were no words that could describe the magnificence of the music. Of him. Romance hung in the air, close enough for her to catch and swallow it whole.

“Jaime – that was beautiful. Your music is...transcendent. I never knew –”

He looked pleased and proud, smiling at her with lively eyes that were solely focused on her.

“You inspired me, you know – I thought of you when I wrote those pieces.” He leaned closer, his chest nearly touching hers. Heat radiated off him like a furnace.

She shook her head and made a protesting sound. 

“What?” Jaime leaned closer and inhaled. His hand grazed her ears, her neck, making her shiver. “It’s true. I missed you. Your eyes, the way you look at me that breaks my heart.”

His breath was hot on her face. He was mesmerizing. She could still feel the notes of his music still echoing through her. All she wanted was to succumb again to his heat, give in to her own desire. It had been all too easy to give in after her performance in the dressing room – she had been possessed, lost in the leftover emotions of the performance. He moved in to kiss her, but before their lips could touch, she turned her face away and stepped back.

“We can’t do this, Jaime.” Her heart was pounding.

“We’ve already done this –” Jaime said, his expression pleading.

“That – what happened in the dressing room – it shouldn’t have happened.”

Jaime’s eyes were sharp, wounded as he pulled his face back. “Are you saying it was a mistake?” He gripped her hip; his touch made her tremble.

She shook her head. “It should never have happened.”

“So, it wasn’t a mistake but it should never have happened. I see.”

“We got carried away. The music….”

“It’s the music’s fault that we ended up fucking like animals in your dressing room?”

Brienne sighed, prying his fingers away from her hip. She could feel her heart on the precipice of letting go, of not caring about the consequences of succumbing to Jaime.

“I must go. I thank you for allowing me to listen to your work, Jaime.” She turned away, but Jaime caught her arm and pulled her to him. His kiss on her was searing, his tongue plundering, his mouth greedy on hers. It was a kiss that _demanded_. She met his hunger with her own, and she kissed him back hard before she broke it off, both of them breathing hard.

They stared at each other, their gazes mutually devouring each other. Jaime’s right hand opened and closed, as if trying to hold back a flood. Gods, she wanted – _wanted_ him still. His hands on her bare skin, his kisses, his cock inside her. The edge was so close, she could see the sharp rocks below, the long vertiginous descent.

“This is madness. I won’t come back.” She felt tears start to form in her eyes, and she quickly grabbed her cape and hat and ran out the door. She felt the heat of his gaze but he did not follow her.

On the street, she flagged a hansom cab and scrambled in. She closed her eyes, trying to steady her own breaths, trying to forget the taste of his lips on hers. She wanted him, but she dared not let herself take – or be taken – by him.


	9. Nine: The Salon

Brienne glided into the dim bedroom as if in a vision, her dark, slinky robes swirling around her. She circled the sleeping form of Robb, singing a lullaby that transformed into a loud invocation that startled him awake. Robb, drowsy and bare-chested, rose up as if enchanted, started to sing in counterpoint, his eyes wide, as she gave him soft caresses, her hands hot on his chest and shoulders. Soon, his voice melded with hers, his gaze on her enthralled. He began to melt with her touches, until she lowered her head to him and gave him a long, passionate kiss, and he pulled her into bed, both of them singing, rising above the swell of the accompanying orchestra as their limbs entangled in the blankets and the lights were extinguished.

“Wonderful!” Varys called out, as the music faded.

Brienne was still in Robb’s arms, his lips on her neck, his legs between hers. She felt warm and liquid, and had to take a moment to get out of character, to exorcise that heat in her blood. Her partner seemed to feel the same, as he reluctantly let her go and sat up in a daze, deliberately gathering the pool of blankets on his lap, his cheeks pink.

“That was very sensual,” Varys mused, clapping his hands in delight. “It will cause a sensation. It might be even scandalous!” He looked at her with an accessing eye. “You’ve certainly grown up, Miss Tarth. There is so much raw power in you than in that young girl who was so shy and easily intimidated whom I met years ago.”

“I have been taught by the best these past five years,” Brienne said archly. Varys looked at her for a moment and giggled. 

Within the last couple of years, Varys had left the Conservatory and had taken on the task of directing. When they reunited, he had been apologetic about Brienne’s expulsion from the school, but was matter-of-fact about the decision, explaining that there was no choice involved as it pertained to the wishes of the Queen. Brienne had accepted his apology readily enough, since she very well understood the circumstances surrounding the directive, that it was much more personal than about her own singing talents and abilities. In addition, she wanted to work with Varys – he knew her voice and what it could do; he was, after all, her very first voice teacher, and more importantly, he didn’t seem intimidated by the thought of her on stage as another director might be.

When he approached her about performing in his latest, a Greyjoy Opera about a young prince who is seduced by a dark faerie queen in his quest to rescue his beloved maiden from the clutches of the dark sorceress, she immediately said yes. It wasn’t the romantic lead – the part of the innocent maiden was to be played by the petite and pretty upcoming star Margaery Tyrell – but the dark sorceress queen was a powerful role that highlighted her lower and upper registers. The part was much more complex than that of the simpering maiden, although of course the villainess meets with a bad end, stabbed with a dagger to the heart by ex-lover and hero of the story. The fact that she was to be opposite Robb Stark, who in the past few years had established himself as the premier leading man in Opera, was a prominent factor in her decision. She and Robb had not really kept in touch while she was away, but his sister Arya showed up in Dorne about two years ago, declaring herself ready to join the circus. She had prevented Robb from fetching his runaway sister, and she had occasional notes from him since, all friendly, all urging her to return to the King’s Landing stage. They had immediately resumed an affectionate friendship as soon as they reunited in person. He was still very kind, really the best of men.

Varys called end of the rehearsal and others promptly left the stage, leaving Brienne and Robb, who was lounging back on the bed.

“You do me in every time, Brienne.” Robb propped himself onto his elbow, looking at her fondly with amused eyes.

“Is that right?” She smiled at him mischievously. She had to admit to herself that Robb was marvellous to look at, especially without a shirt.

He sat up, sidled next to her. He leaned in close, his mouth near her ear. “You make me want to never stop touching you.” He nudged her neck and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Can I kiss you?”

She turned to look at his face, on which she read desire. She smiled softly, stroking his cheek. He leaned into her touch, wanting more. “Only when we’re performing, Robb.” She squeezed his hand. “It’s easy to get carried away when we’re in character.”

He pouted his full lips. The red spots on his cheeks were tempting to kiss. 

She gave him a long look. “Anyway. I heard you were engaged.”

He groaned and drew back. “My mother. She has arranged a union with a daughter from a prominent family, Lady Roslin Frey. She is pretty enough. But not very exciting. I barely know her – we’ve exchanged perhaps five sentences altogether. She is very maidenly and silent.”

She patted his knee reassuringly. “It is your life, Robb. You shouldn’t let others force you to do things you don’t want to do.”

He gave her an admiring look. “That’s why I adore you, Brienne. You go your own way, even if others are trying to stop you. Gods, if only my mother approved of you.”

Brienne laughed, imagining their conversation. “You’ve talked to Catelyn Stark about me?”

He nodded. “She suspected – rightly, I might add – that I had begun to form an attachment to you all those years ago. One day, she sat me down and listed all the things that made you a poor match for me.”

“Ah, of course,” she smiled, amused. “There must have been a great number of things. I’m a nobody, with no family, no social connections. No money, likely already ruined.”

He sighed but did not deny her words. “She didn’t fight when the directive from the Queen came regarding you not continuing on in the school. I’m sorry for that.” Robb’s blue eyes looked sad and regretful. She knew, of course, that he agreed to a match because he felt intensely sorry about his mother being left alone after his father’s sudden death three years ago. He was noble like that, but it still rankled her that he would allow himself to be shackled for life to a woman he barely knew.

She shrugged. “It was for the best.” She inwardly flinched at the sharp memory of the queen, jealously claiming Jaime as her possession, the razor sharpness of her beauty.

“I wonder sometimes, had you stayed, if we would have ended up together,” he admitted, his blue eyes clear and fond.

She ran her fingers idly through his auburn curls; he leaned into her like a pleased pup. Robb would make some girl very happy one day, she thought.

He stared at her and groaned. “Gods, how can I keep from embarrassing myself on stage when we’re together, Brienne? It’s a growing problem.” He lifted the blankets and indicated to his crotch.

She followed his gaze and laughed, seeing an evident bulge. Of course she couldn’t help but feel his hardness when they had been entwined together during rehearsal. “That’s very flattering, Robb. I suggest you talk to the costume department about that.” She gave him a knowing smirk.

Robb was handsome and kind, and he seemed to only have improved with age, growing even more charming. She imagined he felt even more pressure to be the head of the family since his father died. Brienne wondered idly if she would have fallen in love with him if Jaime hadn’t been there all those years ago. She could not deny that he also sparked a desire in her, albeit one that could be easily overcome by rational thought. It was utterly different than what she had with Jaime. She blushed as she remembered their encounter in her dressing room. She could hardly believe that they fucked the first time they laid eyes on each other in five years. What she and Jaime had was uncontrolled, wild, incendiary. Terrifying. No wonder she needed to stay away.

“I’m glad you’re back, Brienne,” Robb said, squeezing her hand. 

She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “Me too,” she said, wondering if she actually meant those words. Her life seemed to have gotten much more complicated.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Olenna Tyrell’s salon was infamous in King’s Landing and attracted the most prominent avant-garde artists, singers and writers. For decades, 31 Silk Street was where people gathered to debate ideas, listen to impromptu concerts and get swept away by recitations of the latest love poems. And, as the hour got later and later, couples would find dark corners and hidden rooms to discreetly make love without the condemnation of society. Because of the potential for scandal if any stories got out, the invitations to these gatherings were carefully curated, and whatever events that transpired in the Tyrell salon were never spoken of upon pain of artistic and professional banishment.

Brienne, of course, had never been, but upon her return to the city one evening, she found herself within the luxurious confines of Olenna Tyrell’s large penthouse, after having been sent invitations to her hotel suite nearly from the moment she arrived back in the city. She was much too curious to decline the invitation, and Margaery proved very persuasive. She had dressed in a periwinkle blue silk blouse with a droopy black bow, along with slim-fitting black trousers. An intricately embroidered black and blue caplet with a high collar finished her outfit. She looked like a very rich rogue, though a female one. While she was by nature shy and retiring, the performer in her could not help but delight in the shocked looks of the party when they spied her bold choice of trousers.

The Tyrell apartment was exquisite, with rooms of brocaded wallpaper in rich, deep colours. Paintings in ornate, carved frames hung all over the walls, most of them featuring outrageous nudes and couples embracing. Every surface was filled with art: little statues, framed drawings, porcelain figurines. There were even carved stone statues of erect phalluses that made her blush, flagrantly on display amongst the other art. Books were everywhere, including, she noticed, a few large volumes of illustrated erotic books – the same ones that Oberyn and Ellaria had enthusiastically shown her when she went to Dorne after she ran away from King’s Landing. Brienne had never been in a room that was so packed with thought and art and life. She felt she could get lost examining these little artifacts.

The enticing sound of a piano softly playing wafted from one of the far away rooms, and titters of laughter and rumbles of low conversation filled the air. Women were dressed in colourful, silky dresses, much more revealing than they would normally dare in daylight, free of tight corsets, petticoats, and bustles that they would have worn in normal circumstances. Men, in elegant suits and extravagant cravats, huddled in groups smoking the latest Myrish cigars, gazing at the world with hazy, smoke-filled eyes. The whole sight of it would have been shocking of Brienne had not experience the sensual rooms and costumes of Dorne.

“Brienne,” the soprano star Margaery Tyrell, who looked ravishing in a low-cut green gown, came up to her. “I’m so glad you came.” The woman gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. Despite the fact that they were both sopranos, the two of them had surprisingly little conflict; of course, Margaery played the love heroine, where Brienne had more limited roles offered to her. They were completely opposite types.

For someone who was so gorgeous and talented, Margaery was filled with kindness, though the woman was fully aware of her loveliness and charm, and used those powers to gently persuade, as she did with Brienne, to attend this soiree. 

“Come meet grandmother – she’s been dying to meet you.” The woman smiled, revealing pretty dimples and a sparkle in her hazel eyes.

Lady Olenna Tyrell had unusually short, cropped white hair, and dressed in layers and layers of colourful Yi Tish printed silks which hid her short, tiny form. She had the look of a dowager empress, keen and shrewd, seeing and knowing all. It seemed to Brienne that she was the sun around which artists orbited. She was fixed in her armchair, while men and women kissed her and entertained her with stories and song.

Lady Olenna gazed at her with sharp and intelligent regard. 

“Margaery, dear, is this her? The famous Sapphire Soprano?” The old lady’s keen eyes looked her up and down, and eyes crinkling with delight as the wizened eyes took in the whole landscape of her. 

Brienne held out her hand to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Lady Olenna. Thank you for inviting me to this magnificent party.”

The lady had a surprisingly firm and strong grip as they shook hands. 

“Your attire, my dear! I’ve never seen anyone look so distinguished and magnificent!” She smiled. “I saw you on stage last month, and have been prodding dear Margaery to bring you to one of my salons. I said to her, ‘I must meet the lady with that voice!’ Didn’t I dear?”

The young woman nodded. “Certainly, grandmother. It took quite a bit of convincing to get her to come, I must say.”

Lady Olenna smiled slyly. “Dear, I hope you will be impressed. The turnout is quite good tonight. I do wish you’d enjoy yourself.” She winked. “Anything goes as long as no one gets hurt,” she said slyly. “We are the soul of discretion within the confines of this apartment!”

Brienne nodded, smiling warmly at the two women. Being at this party reminded her of the circus – the atmosphere of artistic freedom, the loosening of morals. She always thought society was strange that way, how freedoms were encouraged behind closed doors or at parties like this, but in the harsh light of the morning the same acts carried harsh judgements, at profound personal cost. It was so unlike Dorne and out east. She wondered how her life would have been different, had she remained on Tarth to be a lady; she would have undoubtedly been constrained by rules and expectations. Perhaps she would have been forced to marry and have children. 

Brienne saw a group of men and women, lounging on carpets and cushions in one room, evidently imbibing absinthe and smoking a pungent smelling herb. At the dining table on the other end of the room, men and women were passionately debating the role of morality and religion in the light of dreary conditions the new factories that were being rapidly built in the city. Brienne bypassed them all, attracted to the tinkling of a melancholy piano from a faraway room. 

She knew she recognized the piano playing – it was, of course, Jaime Lannister at the piano, his fingers lightly flying over the keys, playing a slow waltz as entwined couples swayed on the dance floor. He looked up as she came into the room, and his eyes blazed at her. She felt a corresponding thrill within her at the sight of his golden head, his gently mussed up collar, the slightly askew cravat. She had not seen Jaime some weeks, having gotten caught up in rehearsals for the new opera. Regardless, he wasn’t sure if they had much to say to each other.

“Brienne.” A large hand circled her waist; Brienne turned to see the dashing figure of Robb pulling her into a dance. 

She smiled, genuinely happy to see him. “You look very provocative tonight,” he purred into her ear. “Those trousers. Your legs.” He looked at her up and down appreciatively.

“Well, tonight I’m here as the Sapphire Soprano, so I must play the part.” She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I never thought men’s attire would be so alluring on a woman.” He spun her around with surprising ease, considering she was half a head taller than him.

Brienne laughed. “You are certainly turning on your charms tonight, Robb Stark.”

He wagged his eyebrows. “Is it working?” He leaned his face close to her, his breath at her neck. 

She smiled, giving him a light kiss on the cheek. She leaned and whispered in his ear, “Save it for the stage, darling.”

Robb leaned his head back and laughed, giving her waist a squeeze.

He led her to another room, where a dark-haired man turned at their approach. Brienne recognized him as Jon Snow, Robb’s cousin whom she met all those years ago. He looked the same with his curly black locks and handsome face, but he had filled out, becoming leaner and muscular; he looked terribly solemn and masculine.

“Brienne, I hope you remember Jon, my cousin. He definitely remembers you.” Robb winked at his cousin, who went a little pink.

Jon kissed her hand. “How could I ever forget you doing acrobatics in the meadow at Winter House with Arya? Imagine, our little Arya wouldn’t be in the circus were it not for you.” He smiled, his face glowing at her. “It’s a true pleasure to see you again, after all these years. I’m glad you’ve returned to Westeros.”

She grinned at Jon, nodding. “Thank you, Jon. I have very treasured memories of that visit as well. Your family was incredibly welcoming. And last I heard from Oberyn, Arya is doing fantastically well. Her act is one of a kind. She’s calling herself ‘Arya Silver Claw’ and has the public terrified, apparently.”

“She’s always been a lethal one,” Robb said delightedly.

Jon nodded at her, smiling. “I’m truly happy to see how much success you’ve gotten, Brienne.”

Robb grinned at the two of them and nudged his cousin. “Tell her about the commission, Jon.”

Jon reddened further. “Well, I’ve made a somewhat of a name for myself as an artist here in King’s Landing, and well the Opera House commissioned me to paint your portrait, if you’d agree, of course.”

Brienne frowned. The thought of someone as unfortunate looking as her being captured on canvas did not appeal to her. 

Robb, seeing her hesitation, added, “Jon is really very good. And he knows you – he would do an excellent job, Brienne. He’d capture how special you are.”

Jon nodded eagerly. “I would be honoured if you were to sit for me, Brienne. I would do my utmost to capture your magnificence.”

Brienne was still inwardly skeptical, but nodded slightly, remembering that Jon would be painting the Sapphire Soprano, not Brienne Tarth.

“Alright,” she said reluctantly. Jon grinned and bowed, giving her a card on which the address of his studio was printed. 

When she returned to the other room, the piano had been taken over by a brown-haired young man who was wearing a brocaded housecoat, surrounded by a group of visibly drunk fellows who were singing lewd songs to the ceiling. Margaery placed a glass of champagne in her hand and flitted away. She drank and felt her throat tingle. People grinned at her and called out to her. She was given food and chocolate, was whirled from one group to another. Her head was spinning with activity – somehow, in the chaotic whirl, she had misplaced her cape, and her bow tie and a few buttons of her blouse had become undone. She was pulled into one conversation after another; she had never been in such a welcoming roomful of strangers. 

A hand reached out and pulled her onto a balcony. From the sureness of the touch and the heat that flared in her body, she knew the only person it could be. There he stood, his collar open, his cravat disappeared, his shirtsleeves rolled up. Without his jacket, she could see the tautness of his abdomen, the muscles of his shoulders, the tantalizing bare skin of his strong forearms. The light through the glass door illuminated the sharp angles of his profile. His eyes searched her face, as if he wanted to take his fill of her. His mouth was slack, his breath heavy. The heat of him surrounded her.

They were alone on the balcony which overlooked a courtyard filled with flowers. The sweet aroma of honeysuckle filled the air, as a breeze stirred the golden strands of Jaime’s hair. She wanted to rake her fingers through his curls.

“Jaime,” she breathed. He held her elbow a few more moments, then slowly let go.

“I’ve been hoping I’d get to see you all night, but you’ve been a much too popular guest – I’ve had to steal you.”

“People here have been exceptionally kind,” she said. “And I’ve run into a handful of people that I’m acquainted with.”

“You seem comfortable dancing in Robb’s arms,” Jaime said, his voice a touch annoyed.

“We’re doing an opera together. He’s a good friend.”

“A better friend than me?” She could see his eyes glittering in the darkness.

She looked at him ruefully. “I’m not sure we are friends right now, Jaime.”

He huffed. “He’s engaged to be married to a Frey girl, so I hear.”

“I am aware. I don’t mean to marry him, Jaime. We are just friends.”

“And us? How can we become friends again, Brienne?” His fingers idly played with the silk ends of her black bow tie, which was hanging down near her breasts. He wasn’t touching her skin, yet why did it feel that his touch burned?

She hitched a breath, willing herself not to lean forward like she very much wanted to. “I don’t know if we can go back as we were, Jaime.”

He drew closer and softly cupped her cheek, radiating warmth through her skin. “Why? Is it because of this?”

He kissed her, his lips tentative and soft. 

As always, the touch of his lips, his hands stroking her cheek and neck pushed her off a cliff, and made her forget all her worries and fears, until nothing mattered but the feel and taste of Jaime. He tasted like champagne and strawberries. Just one soft kiss set her alight, and the next thing she knew, she was kissing him back, her mouth opening under his, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths.

He moaned into her, his hands exploring her back, and lowering to cup her ass, making her groan into his neck. She tasted the faint salt of his skin, the masculine musk of him mingling with the heady scent of night flowers. She couldn’t think. She opened his shirt and started sucking on his collarbone, licking the hollow of his throat; Jaime grunted and pushed her against the wall, his hips pressing against hers. He was hard, grinding his erection into her as she instinctively widened her legs for her to rub her molten core against him. He kissed her neck and palmed her breasts through her blouse and rubbed his hardness frantically against her, sending sparks from her groin to her entire pelvis and radiating throughout her entire body. She moved against him, faster and more and more desperate until the sparks grew and grew until she couldn’t take it anymore and she came with a soft cry, shuddering against his neck. He held her and kissed her neck, slowing down his movements as she whimpered.

“Brienne,” he said, his voice low and wanting. He looked at her like she was the only thing he wanted in the world. Her mind was full of Jaime, and all she wanted was to make him feel the way he just made her feel. All of a sudden, she wanted him even more. Her hands scrambling, she unbuttoned his trousers, making him gasp in surprise. She turned him and pushed him against the wall.

“Brienne –” he choked out a cry as she pulled down his trousers and took out his stiff cock as she went down on her knees. His eyes were dark and blazing with heat. She had seen this done of course, in dim corners, and had seen it in Oberyn’s erotic books, and all the tips that Ellaria freely gave her repeated in her mind. There was nothing she wanted more to do right then than to taste Jaime and give him pleasure.

“Oh gods, oh fuck,” he groaned as she took the head of his cock into her mouth. He was thick and heavy and smelled of musk and tasted of salt. She was at first tentative, but his overwhelming reaction – gasping, moaning, clawing at the brick wall behind him – gave her all the confidence she needed. She moved her lips up and down his cock and swirled her tongue around his leaking head. She wanted to savour the velvety softness of his skin, the iron-hardness of his member. She wanted to make him quake. When she took him as far as she could into the back of her throat, he cried out, held her head and thrust his hips uncontrollably as he spurted warm streams of his release in her mouth.

He whimpered, shuddering, as she swallowed his seed and moved up and down his cock a few final times, sucking the rest of his seed into her mouth and licking him clean, as he gasped in surprise. He tasted thick and sticky in her mouth.

His eyes were wide as he pulled her up and kissed her deeply, tasting his own spend on her tongue. He held her tight, and she could feel his heart beating heavily through his clothes.

Brienne tucked him back in and fastened his trousers. He looked at her with sleepy, affectionate eyes. He looked completely wrecked, as he drew her into a long embrace, murmuring affectionate nonsense into her ear.

She broke their embrace and stroked his hair and face.

He leaned toward her again. “Come home with me,” he murmured into her neck.

“You are much too dangerous for my heart, Jaime.” She cupped his face, wanting so much to go home with him and sleep in his arms. To really have him. But being with him hurt, and their inevitable parting would hurt even more. Her heart had already been cracked by being with Jaime; she wanted that one night years ago to have been a balm and comfort, but instead, the time with him had tortured her and left her wanting impossible things. She was afraid for her heart, afraid it would shatter if it became unfettered and free.

He looked at her, expression a little lost. “You can’t deny this thing between us, Brienne.” 

“I don’t want to fall for you,” she said seriously. “This,” she gestured between them, “Is why we can’t go back to being friends. It’s impossible.”

He looked at her with furrowed forehead and a searching gaze. He sighed, his fingers clutching the sleeve of her blouse. She felt wretched at disappointing him; there was nothing she wanted more than to give in and let him take her to his bed, but she was a coward at her core. That was the truth of it.

“I’m sorry, Jaime,” Brienne said, as she rearranged her clothes and slowly walked toward the door. 


	10. Ten: Enchantments

The new opera debuted to rave reviews and an enraptured audience – the Grand Opera house thundered with applause as the evil faerie queen was tragically stabbed in the heart by the young knight who was still half in love with her. The sorceress’ death, however, freed the magical manacles of the young maiden, beautiful and lovely, as she collapsed in the young knight’s arms and they chastely kissed as the curtains lowered.

Robb beamed at both Margaery and Brienne, throwing his head back, laughing and jubilant. He picked up Margaery by her small waist and twirled her about, and took Brienne’s hand and helped her up from the floor where she collapsed on her death scene, her dress a ruin, and her pale neck and hands splattered with fake blood. The curtains again lifted, and the crowd rose to their feet and the applause intensified. The sound penetrated her skin and thrilled through her blood. This – the acclaim for all their hard work, the confirmation that the music they made and the story they told moved the audience – was what she lived for and yearned for. Brienne was ecstatic. The three of them bowed, and were joined by the rest of the company. Robb kissed Margaery’s hands, and turned to Brienne, his eyes shining, and kissed her soundly on the lips, much to her astonishment and to the enchanted cries of the audience.

Varys came on the stage, bouquets of pink roses in hand for both Brienne and Margaery, along with cheek kisses – the crowd cheered, and the bald man in sumptuous gold silk suit joined hands with the company and bowed. The view was magnificent from the stage as the house lights turned on – people were smiling, tears in their eyes, as if still moved by the last strains of song. Brienne’s eyes roamed the seats and noticed to her surprise that the royal box was occupied. King Stannis was clapping with the rest of the audience, his mouth settled in a pinched but pleased expression; beside him was the near giddy twelve-year-old Princess Shireen, who stood and clapped, a wide grin on her face. Brienne nearly faltered in her smile as she noticed the figure behind them, but there was no missing the lovely golden braids and curls piled on the top of a most beautiful head and face. Dowager Queen Cersei was just as beautiful as Brienne remembered, and her face had a slightly smiling, haughty expression as she lightly patted her palms together.

Brienne could not help but be swept away by the ebullience and celebration at the post performance reception. The guests, many of them she hadn’t seen since she left King’s Landing, wore their best, dressed in gowns that were opulent, beaded, embroidered and made of the finest silks and satins. Women trailed gentle clouds of perfume as they swayed and laughed prettily into the air. Men were neat and luxurious looking, their evening suits sharply tailored and without fault, their gloves white and unbesmirched. Champagne overflowed delicate crystal flutes and people laughed and gathered in small groups.

Brienne was arm in arm with Robb, who also had Margaery on his other side. All of them had washed their faces free of stage makeup and changed into evening wear. Margaery was beautiful in an opened necked, white silk gown festooned with green ribbon work and pink beading to represent cherry blossoms and leaves. As planned, Brienne was a contrast in a stark black dress made from layers of thin black silk and lace, a deliberate reminder of the dark and seductive character of her role. Standing beside two of the most attractive specimens of either sex made her vaguely embarrassed, as Brienne was very conscious of the contrast between her awkward, ugly form to those of her companions. But she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and channeled the persona of the Sapphire Soprano, that unapologetic, brilliant, bold artist who could dismiss cruel words away as if they were the wind itself. When the three of them made the entrance, the room burst into applause, as they again took their bows. Robb gave both of them cheek kisses, declaring he was “the luckiest man in the world” to be in between such astonishing beauties. Brienne could barely hide her smirk.

Margaery darted toward the Tyrells who embraced her as she joined them, and Robb spotted the Starks and turned to Brienne.

“Do you want me to stick by your side tonight, Brienne?” His clear blue eyes were kind, conscious of her awkwardness at large receptions such as this.

She squeezed his arm and smiled as she shook her head. “Thank you, dear Robb, but no. Go join your family.”

He grinned at her. “Come say hello when you get the chance. Sansa and Arya are awfully excited to see you again.”

“I will,” she promised, glimpsing the corner of assembled Starks, and catching Catelyn Stark’s rather embarrassed glance. Brienne was surprised to see Arya waving at her wildly, grinning, since she was supposed to have been with the circus somewhere out in the Stormlands. Seeing the Starks enthusiastically gathered around Robb, Brienne felt a melancholy start to seep into her bones, as she wished her own family could see her now. Yet they were all buried on Tarth, and she was the last of the Tarths now.

“Darling!” Brienne was suddenly embraced by a cloud of spicy clove and carnation as warm arms surrounded her. She was then passed to another person with very strong arms, who hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek.

A little bewildered, she gasped in surprise to see Ellaria and Oberyn standing in front of her, dressed in Dornish-inspired evening clothes of closely cut silks in gold and purple. Ellaria’s thin, transparent layers of her long gown left nothing to the imagination. They looked ravishing.

“Ellaria! Oberyn! What are you doing here?” Brienne could not repress a grin.

Ellaria grabbed her hands. “You wouldn’t think we’d miss your King’s Landing operatic debut, do you? Oberyn just moved the tour dates a little so we could see you sing on stage.”

“There are advantages to running the show, after all,” Oberyn said demurely, his dark eyes glittering, as he looked her up and down with more than mild desire.

Brienne felt her eyes fill, grateful for both of them. “Thank you,” she managed to eke out.

Oberyn smiled and lightly traced her neck and shoulders, and lightly fingered the horseshoe pendant that she still wore every day. “You were magnificent tonight, Brienne. I’ve never heard such beauty.”

Ellaria nodded. “Your voice has never sounded more majestic. The power!” She tilted her head. “Although I think the knight should have run away with the Sorceress instead of saving that silly maiden.”

“Goodness and innocence can get easily insipid,” Oberyn mused. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Brienne blushed. Ellaria and Oberyn exchanged knowing smiles.

“Are you doing shows in King’s Landing?” Brienne asked, curious.

“We’re here for a three weeks. Then over west to Lannisport.”

“Lannisport, that’s where I’m from.” Jaime suddenly appeared before them. Oberyn lifted an eyebrow but made room for him to join their little circle. Ellaria widened her eyes and made no secret of looking him up and down, gorgeous in a dark blue evening suit with golden piping at the collar and a white cravat.

Brienne could not help but feel shaken by the appearance of Jaime – she hadn’t seen him in weeks, but he was a bright golden beacon, smiling widely at her, his jaw sharp and his lovely green eyes terribly fond as he beheld her form.

“This is Jaime Lannister.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Oberyn said, a cheeky smile on his lips. Brienne blushed. “His talented fingers are as famous as his compositions in Dorne,” he added.

Brienne cleared her throat. “And this is Oberyn Martell and Ellaria Sand. They run the Circus of Dreams.”

Jaime’s expression brightened. “Ah, the wench has told me tales of your circus. It’s an honour to meet the people behind such a show. I remember seeing in all those years ago, with the late King Robert.”

Brienne gave him a stern look at the use of her nickname.

Ellaria smiled, noting significant looks from Brienne to Jaime. “That was a memorable night indeed. The beginning of Brienne’s singing career on the opera stage.”

“It’s been a long time. We’ve made tremendous changes to the show.” Oberyn tilted his head and gazed at the two of them. “Why don’t you two come to a performance as our special guests? I’m sure the gang would love to see you again, Brienne.”

Jaime looked pleased and nodded. “It would be a tremendous honour. That is, if Brienne doesn’t mind accompanying me?”

Brienne nodded reluctantly, aware of the heat on her face. “Yes, of course. Thank you.”

Oberyn and Ellaria bid their goodbyes, giving Brienne lingering embraces, and left her alone with Jaime.

They stood in silence for a few moments. “You don’t really mind going to see the circus with me, do you?”

She shook her head. “No, of course not, Jaime.”

He smiled at her, pleased. “You look beautiful, Brienne.” He reached out to touch the silk of her skirt. “And you were incredible tonight. Astonishing, really. You really were meant for the stage.”

She lowered her head, embarrassed at the effusive words. “Thank you, Jaime. I love the role, and I’m glad that I did it justice.”

She bit her lip. “I was surprised to see Queen Cersei in the royal box with King Stannis and Princess Shireen.”

Jaime frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I noticed her as well. She has made friends with the King it seems, though I know not what she’s up to.”

“You really don’t see her?”

He gave her an even look. “No. I haven’t had a conversation with her in years. Don’t you believe me?”

She nodded.

He narrowed his eyes, as his gaze swept over the crowd and landed on the clump of Starks. “And your leading man is still engaged to a Frey girl, I take it?”

“Who? Robb? Yes, I suppose so.”

“He seems to be very free with his kisses then, wench.”

Brienne laughed. “It’s just for the stage, Jaime. You can’t think that Robb is interested in me? Gods.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then Jaime’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “Well,” he said, smiling softly, “I’m glad to hear that.”

The way Jaime was looking at her made her long for him, made her feel a physical ache in her belly. She missed the feel of his lips, the taste of him. The memory of her boldness the last time they saw each other made her flush. She remembered his ecstasy as he came in her mouth, the warm of his seed, the taste of him. He gazed at her through his long eyelashes, his stare both seductive and imploring, as if he were remembering the same scene. His lips were slightly open, his breaths slightly fast. He stepped closer to her, and her body seemed to respond to his proximity – her skin vibrated with the nearness of him.

“Will you allow me to call on you next week, when the run of the opera is over?” He leaned close to her ear, his breath warm on her skin.

She nodded, suddenly speechless at his proximity.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The golden canopy rose high above them, the thick silk shiny and gleaming; under the circus tent, it was as if they were transported to a different vault of heaven. The air was cold as they took their front row seats, and there was a strange hush around them as the gas lights dimmed for the performance. Brienne could feel Jaime sitting next to her, his body leaning toward her, their thighs lightly touching; she turned and admired his noble profile, the strong, sculpted nose, the sharp angle of his jawline, the fascination in his eyes as he watched the stage. He leaned closer, catching her eye and she nearly gasped, his gaze jolting her with its intensity. The tent went dark.

The show was different from the one she performed in years ago; Oberyn and the company had somehow injected even more magic into the evening: transitions between acts were seamless, bridged by haunting, lilting music, and everything from the costumes to the performances were without flaw and transported the audience to a whole different world. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes were like birds, flying through the air in their aerial trapeze act, spinning on ropes of gold in their short, nearly transparent costumes. Their blind leaps elicited gasps from the audience. During a particular tense maneuver, Jaime grabbed Brienne’s hand, much to her surprise, but continued to hold it the remainder of the show. She could not help but feel her heart warm as his warm hands returned to hers again and again after they broke to applause.

Arya performed a heart-stopping knife throwing act, culminating in the thrilling climax where a young, very handsome dark-haired young man was splayed, tied up, and was flung with knives in his direction. The daggers landed much too close to his skin, and particularly tender parts of him, and she felt her hands gripping Jaime’s much too hard. She could barely believe that this near lethal, fierce young woman was the young girl who had begged her to show her somersaults and handstands just a few years ago.

No more was there an equestrienne act, no animal acts of any kind, in fact. But Brienne was entranced by the new magician that they hired, a tall, slim woman dressed in dark robes, her black hair flowing under her hood, her dark eyes rimmed in kohl. She was known only as Quaithe and was completely silent during her act, her hands and arms doing the talking for her, as she made larger and larger objects disappear into thin air; she seemed to play with light and appeared to make shadows lengthen and dance before her.

The other new act was the beautiful fire mistress Daenerys, who was tiny and pale and had long silver hair, her beauty otherworldly. She spewed great blue and orange flames from her mouth and leapt through rings of fire, culminating in a tall leap off a rickety wooden tower into a tank of water whose surface was consumed with bright flame. Jaime tightened his hold on her hand and she squeezed it. His face, when she glanced at him, was almost frightened. There was something terrible and awe-inspiring about the small woman who held the power of fire in her hands. From their close distance, Brienne could almost feel the heat from her flames. Brienne wondered where on earth had Oberyn found this woman.

After the show was over, Brienne led Jaime through the various tent and food stalls. Jaime scampered to one and came back with a flower crown of deep blue flowers which he firmly placed on her head.

“Jaime,” she protested, knowing she likely looked ridiculous. Flower crowns were for pretty girls, not ones like her.

He grinned and gently batted her hand away when she went to remove the crown from her head. He leaned closer. “Blue is a good colour on you, my lady. You look even more like the Blue Angel.”

Jaime looked so charming and pleading that she allowed the flower crown to stay and thanked the gods instead that it was dark and night time.

They warmed their hands with cups of wine, warm and spiced with clove, cinnamon and a mild chili from Dorne.

Jaime took her fingers, raised an eyebrow roguishly, and led her to a small, black tent. Inside was cool and dark, much more spacious than the outside would suggest. In the middle of the room was a table, covered with black velvet and on top of which sat a large crystal ball, which seemed oddly to emit the only light in the room. Behind it sat a wizened, wrinkled woman, dressed in black. The air smelled of lavender and mint, and something earthy and dark.

“Sit down, my dears,” the old woman croaked. Her voice seemed not to come from the woman but from all around them. Brienne suddenly noticed two stools before the table. She looked nervously at Jaime, who grinned playfully back.

“You are here to seek your futures, have you?” The woman skewered them with her dark, shrewd eyes.

Brienne stared, unable to speak.

“That’s right. Tell us what our future holds, if you please, my lady.” Jaime smiled easily, betraying not an ounce of nerves.

The old woman lifted up a corner of her mouth into a cold smile. “I’m no lady. They call me Maggy the Frog.” Her hands stroked the soft velvet of the table. “In order for me to read your fortune, I will need two things from both of you.”

Jaime smiled, and reached into his pocket, pulling out gold coins. “Of course.”

Maggy the Frog smiled truly now, her teeth brown and jagged. Brienne shivered. The woman took out a small leather case, opened it, and pulled out a sharp lance.

“And a drop of blood from each of you.”

Jaime frowned, the smile disappearing from his face.

“Come now, dears. Are you afraid of a little prick on your finger? You’d hardly feel it.”

The prick was hardly painful, and Maggy squeezed both of their fingers until a fat drop of blood poised on the surface of their skin.

“Now touch the crystal ball.” She looked at each of them almost gleefully.

Brienne looked at Jaime and they both touched the cool, solid surface of the crystal simultaneously. Instantly, the crystal glowed brighter, illuminating all their faces fully, then the surface of the globe seemed to swirl in white smoke. Maggy cackled.

The old woman stared at Jaime, her eyes becoming pale, almost white, and she seemed to stare through him. Brienne shivered.

“Jaime Lannister. I see a heart, consumed by vines and claws. I see a heart still tethered but the bonds are breaking, only the slightest nudge would free it. You, Jaime Lannister, are at the crossroads: will you turn back, or march forward? How much of yourself will you risk? How much of yourself are you willing to accept?”

Jaime gaped at her, his mouth open and his skin an unearthly shade in the dark.

She turned her terrifying eyes to Brienne now.

“Brienne of Tarth. I see a warrior of old, clad in blue armor. I see a bird, flapping desperately in its cage. You have seen too many loved ones die. You live in fear. You will face fire. What holds you up collapses.” The woman paused. “You will have a choice to make, to shy from or to go towards what you most fear.” Brienne felt her mouth go dry, her heart thudding.

Suddenly, the crystal ball swirled, darkened. “Look,” Maggy the Frog whispered, her eyes suddenly returning to normal.

The smoke and fog in the crystal rearranged themselves and Brienne could make out two figures in the dark, moving, circling each other. Shadows surrounded the pair. A blue light appeared in the form of two swords that both of the figures were holding, and Brienne gasped. She could hear Jaime’s breath grow heavy beside her. She could see clearly now that the two were her and Jaime, and they were completely naked. Her cheeks burned, but she could not look away. Jaime was beautiful in that light. Both of them held swords alit with blue flame, as shadows surrounded them. Then darkness descended, the fog swirled in again, and all was over. Brienne felt her chest grow tight, and she forced herself to breathe slowly. The tent was suddenly enveloped with a thick darkness, and she felt Jaime take her hand. When the crystal ball once again emitted light, the old lady in front of them was gone.

Brienne looked at Jaime, who had grown pale, and shivered.

“Come,” Jaime said, his voice strangled, leading her out of the tent.

“Jaime,” Brienne said in a low voice. He looked at her. “How did she know our names?”

Jaime stared at her and grew even paler. They walked around, feeling comforted by the press of bodies around them as they wove through the crowds. Slowly, Brienne felt her senses return to her, though she could not help but remember the fortune teller’s words and the vision in the crystal ball. Jaime handed her a mug of warm, spiced wine that seemed to return her back to herself.

They entered Oberyn and Ellaria’s tent, the interiors draped with glorious silks and velvets, the ground covered with rugs and cushions and low tables.

“Brienne! Mr. Lannister, come and sit,” Ellaria walked toward them and embraced Brienne warmly and smiled at Jaime.

Oberyn kissed her on the cheek and patted Jaime on the shoulder, and ushered them to a sitting area where a spread of fruits and cheeses were laid out on a low table, surrounded by plush rugs and low couches and pillows. Brienne sank herself down, her pale grey linen dress spreading around her legs. Jaime settled next to her, his expression amused as he arranged his long legs in front of him.

“You have enjoyed the circus, both of you?”

“Oh, it was quite an experience. I don’t think I shall ever forget it,” Jaime remarked sincerely, his expression surprisingly dreamy. “I felt like I was transported to another world, really.”

Brienne nodded eagerly. “Just magical. You have really outdone yourselves. Everything was perfect. And your new acts were incredible! Where did you find them?”

Oberyn chuckled. “Ah, Quaithe and Daenerys, they are spectacular, are they not? In truth,” he said, refilling their goblets of wine, “They found us. I don’t exactly know how they do their acts, to be perfectly honest with you.”

“Sandor is very pleased that he doesn’t have to muck out animal shit ever again, I can assure you.” Ellaria laughed, offering Jaime and Brienne morsels of honey-dipped pastry.

Oberyn’s warm chuckle joined her. “Lion shit is the worst, according to him.” The dark haired man smirked.

Jaime narrowed his eyes and Brienne burst out laughing at his reaction. Jaime shook his head and reluctantly joined in on the laughter.

Brienne could feel Oberyn settle close beside her, the heat of his body pressed against her own. On her other side, Jaime nearly seared her with his own radiating heat. Ellaria lounged next to Oberyn, her dark eyes amused and looking at the three of them.

“We also saw your fortune teller in one of the tents. I didn’t know you had one.”

“Oh, Maggy – she’s not part of the troupe per se, but she shows up on occasion. We really never know if she’s going to be setting up any given night.” He shrugged.

Ellaria leaned over and squeezed Brienne’s hand. “Did she upset either of you? She is very…disquieting.”

Brienne shook her head. “No, of course not. She’s just not like other fortune tellers I’ve seen. She seems to have actual abilities….”

“And the drops of blood,” Jaime added.

“Is she still doing that? I’ve told her it frightens people,” Oberyn grumbled, sipping his cup of wine.

Oberyn turned his attention to Brienne now, his eyes gentle and seductive. He kissed her softly on the cheek and drew his arm around her. Brienne felt a familiar warmth, and felt like more than wine was intoxicating her blood. Jaime seemed to press tighter next to her.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Martell.” Jaime said in a low voice, his green eyes sharp.

Oberyn chuckled and squeezed Brienne’s waist. “It seems to me that Brienne can make her own decisions around who she wants touching her.” He cocked his head. “Unless you two are together?”

“We are,” Jaime growled, taking her hand in his. Brienne felt her face flame and drew away from both Jaime and Oberyn, pushing away their hands. She made a displeased sound.

Ellaria smiled. “That’s really no obstacle for us,” she murmured, her voice seductive. “You are both welcome to join us in our bed. Either of you. Both of you.”

Oberyn leaned over to his paramour and gave her a long, sensuous kiss and turned back to them. “We can make this night even more special,” he purred, leaning over Brienne and lightly caressing Jaime’s jaw.

Jaime looked flabbergasted and abruptly stood up, his gaze everywhere but on Oberyn and Ellaria, and landing almost pleadingly on Brienne. Oberyn let out a lazy smile and drew the smirking Ellaria close.

Brienne stifled a giggle and eased herself up. “I suppose we should go,” she said, sending Oberyn and Ellaria apologetic looks, putting on her light grey gloves.

Oberyn sighed and stood up. Ellaria hugged both Jaime and Brienne. Oberyn embraced Brienne and kissed her lightly on the lips; he then turned to Jaime and kissed him too, fully on the lips, much to the astonishment of Jaime himself. Brienne stared wide-eyed, amusement but also heat bubbling in her veins.

Jaime shook his head as they slowly walked through the cobbled streets of King’s Landing, raucous laughter and music spilling from the establishments lining the Street of Silk.

“Are they always like that?”

“Who? Oberyn and Ellaria?” She furrowed her brow in thought. “Well, they’re Dornish. Things are different down there, people touch each other more, and they believe that virtue is more than what happens in between the sheets when it comes to women. Although I must admit their …affections do take some getting used to. Being in the circus definitely fails to reign in their impulses.”

“They seem to adore you.”

Brienne smiled softly, looking up at the starry night. “I adore _them_. They were there for me when I was fifteen, alone, and penniless. And when I left King’s Landing, they were who I first went to.”

Jaime lowered his head, and if it wasn’t dark, Brienne could almost swear that he was blushing.

“You must think I’m such a prude back there. I just…I’ve only been with two people in that way – Cersei…and you.”

Brienne shook her head, blushing herself. “Gods, Jaime. I haven’t – I haven’t been with them in _that_ way, although I must admit they try to get me into bed with them on a regular basis. It’s become so expected that I don’t even mind. Their kisses and caresses are sweet, and they would never do anything you wouldn’t agree to. They have certainly talked a lot about sensual acts. Nothing is a surprise when it came to the bedroom and my education in that arena.” She blushed, then paused in thought. “Except that one time on my eighteenth birthday, we haven’t really intimately…touched.”

Jaime perked up, looking at her with interest. “Oh? Something happened on your eighteenth birthday, hmmm? I would surely love to hear more.”

“Jaime,” Brienne warned.

He took her hand and wound it around his elbow, pulling her close. “What exactly did they do to you on your birthday, Brienne?” Jaime’s voice was low and rumbling as he leaned close to her ear.

“I’m not telling you.” She gave him a disapproving look.

He drew his face close to her, and his warm breath caressed her ear, making her shiver. “But I was the one you gave your maidenhead to.”

She stared at him, at once appalled at the audacity of his words but also lured by his shameless, almost feral stare. His emerald eyes glimmered and he bit his bottom lip. She felt her heart thump, her knees grow suddenly weak.

The hansom cab drew up and Jaime encircled his arm around her waist as he helped her up and stepped in after her. The horses started at an easy pace, their hooves making a pleasant clopping noise; the rhythm of the carriage calmed her a bit, though she was much too conscious of how Jaime’s thigh pressed next to hers. They sat in silence, the strange tension between them almost electric.

“Brienne,” Jaime murmured, looking at her with a strange intensity. Her eyes were riveted on him as he gently took her hand, turned it so it was palm up, and pulled up her sleeve so her pale inner arm was exposed. Then, ever so slowly, he started to undo the tiny pearl buttons that fastened the fine grey leather at her wrist, and parted the glove to reveal the pale juncture of her skin. He drew her wrist up to his mouth and kissed it. Brienne felt her breath stutter and gasp. His lips were warm as he pressed them to her wrist, and when his tongue tasted her skin Brienne felt a jolt of wild desire run through her. He slowly let go of her hand, and traced the line of her jaw.

She drew in a breath and swallowed. She could not help but stare at his eyes, darkened by desire. “Do you want to come to my rooms?”

His eyes roamed her face and he held her eyes. The carriage stopped. He softly groaned.

“Not tonight.” He tempered any disappointment she may have had by kissing her softly. “But I want to call on you soon. Can I come?” He kissed her again.

She was breathless. “Yes.”

He nodded, smiling, as he got out of the carriage and held her hand as she stepped down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glove scene was 100% inspired by movie adaptation of _The Age of Innocence_. I believe this has to do with Daniel Day Lewis and his exquisite looks and magnetism. It stuck with me as being one of the sexiest non-sex scenes in movies.
> 
> The vibe of the circus scene was influenced by the book _The Night Circus_ by Erin Morgenstern.
> 
> Of course, lots of callbacks to canon in this chapter!


	11. Eleven: Receptions

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to be regarded so intently while staying unmoving and standing still; she was thankful, at very least, that the set of eyes looked at her with both kindness and fascination, devoid of meanness and judgement. That morning, Brienne had arrived at Jon Snow’s studio in her black silk gown that she wore in her performance as the dark faerie queen, though she did not yet have on her usual stage make up. Jon’s studio was located just outside Flea Bottom, on the edges of the respectable part of town, yet the space was large and filled with light, and she felt immediately comfortable when she laid eyes on the smiling face of the curly-mopped man as he threw open the door.

“No chaperone?” Jon asked, as he led her to an armchair. “Young ladies are often accompanied by their aunt or mother, for propriety’s sake.”

Brienne let out a laugh. “I’m hardly a lady and I’m definitely not the chaperone-needing type.”

He grinned at her, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. “I suppose not.”

Jon had insisted that she put her stage make-up away, explaining that the contrast between her elaborate costume with her plain, bare face would make for a fascinating portrait. He stared at her for long moments, studying her as if he would look at a fascinating scientific specimen of some kind, and made a few quick sketches on a pad with sharp, decisive movements of his hands. Later, he stood her in front of a rich red velvet background, next to a side table, and placed her right hand on the table just so, and asked her to hold up the ends of her long gown in her other hand. His hands were firm and confident as he adjusted her pose, pushed her shoulders back, and placed her long fingers just so. Brienne was more amused than anything at the portrait process and the precision with which Jon was setting up the scene.

“What should I do with my head?” Brienne asked, as he stood in front of the easel.

Jon smiled. “Nothing for now. I’m going to do the body first, the gown, which is quite intricate. I will ask you to pose your neck and head a bit later. A profile I think. Elusive.”

He worked in silence for a bit, then looked up. “Are you alright? Do you need a break?”

She shook her head and nearly giggled. “Gods, Jon. It’s only been a few minutes. I’m not as fragile as all that.”

“Well, do let me know if you do need a break. I’m not inclined to torture my models.”

She nodded, and curious, asked. “How did you end up in King’s Landing as an artist, Jon? You seem to have made quite the name for yourself in the past few years.”

“I’ve always painted and wanted to be a painter. Of course, I never imagined I could do this for a living. But I did a few years into art school, then a stroke of luck hit: Jaime Lannister commissioned a portrait of Tyrion Lannister, and the painting created a sensation. I’ve been busy ever since.”

The mention of Jaime shook her unexpectedly. “Jaime Lannister? I had no idea you kept in touch with him.”

“I didn’t, but he somehow remembered me from the house party years back and I ran into him at one of his concerts. That was around the time of my uncle’s death. I suppose Jaime felt sorry for me. In any case, Tyrion and I became quite good friends during our portrait sessions.”

After a couple of hours, Jon looked up and stared at her with renewed interest, tilting his head.

“What is it?”

A pink blush suffused Jon’s cheeks, making him look quite young. He hesitated. “Would you sing a little bit? Of course, only if you wanted to. But I think it might be helpful for me, for the inspiration.”

Brienne, who had already been singing songs in her head to pass the time as she posed, started to sing the songs of her youth from Tarth, not using her operatic tricks, but just plain simple singing, like she used to do when she was a girl. As she sang, she remembered the love ballads that women in the fields sang during short days when the sun set early, she remembered the bright sea shanties that the fishermen sang when they sailed out in the early morning. She remembered the rhythmic waltzes that they used to sing at country weddings, the lullabies that her mother used to sing to them at night.

When she stopped singing, she noticed that Jon had stopped drawing, his gaze fixed on her, his expression soft and awestruck. Seeing his reaction, she blushed.

“Brienne,” he said, his voice a little tremulous, “That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

She shook her head. “Oh, those are just some island tunes. Simple things, really. Nothing like what I do on stage.”

He smiled softly. “That’s exactly why I like them best. They show me so much of who you really are, behind the character of the Sapphire Soprano. The songs also somehow reminded me of my own childhood.” He cleared his throat. “It was…very moving. Thank you.”

When it was time for her to go, they had arranged another sitting, and Jon had even convinced her to sit for another portrait, separate from the commission from the King’s Landing Opera.

As he said goodbye, Jon clasped her hand and kissed it. Brienne had avoided seeing his sketches, but left the studio feeling much more reassured about the portrait than when she had arrived that morning.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The Red Keep was a grand palace, made up of pale red stone, looking down on the dark waters of Blackwater Rush, its layout labyrinthine and perplexing to an unaccustomed eye. Brienne had the vague memory of being led through back passages to the royal quarters for her surprise meeting with Queen Cersei five years ago, which gave her a sense of profound disquiet. But the Great Hall itself was cavernous, with long, narrow windows that revealed a moonless night. A fire in the large hearth contributed to a pleasing glow, along with light from intricate chandeliers and wall lamps.

Princess Shireen, dressed in a pleated silvery purple gown of silk, clapped enthusiastically as Robb and Brienne finished their duet, light little love songs filled with trills, delicate runs and exquisite harmonies. The small royal audience, made up of richly garbed courtiers, ladies and lords, joined in the applause, pleased murmurs surrounding both of them. Jaime, who had composed the songs and had accompanied them on the piano, grinned and himself stood up and grabbed Brienne’s hand and squeezed. Robb took her other hand as they bowed before the intimate audience.

Princess Shireen looked up at Brienne with awe and admiration, her glance shy as she self-consciously hid one side of her face which was covered with rough grey scars, evidence of a childhood illness. A few metres away, King Stannis looked upon the two of them, staying out of the conversations but still within earshot.

“I think you have the most beautiful voice, Miss Tarth,” the princess said softly.

Brienne smiled gently. “Thank you very much, your highness. It was our great pleasure to sing for you tonight, and I thank you for inviting us to the Keep. It’s a grand honour to sing for you and the King.”

The princess blushed, a delicate pink suffusing one cheek.

“Minister Tyrion Lannister told me that my uncle was so entranced by your voice years ago that he gave you a jewel right off his jacket.” The girl’s blue eyes danced with merriment.

Brienne bowed and unpinned the brooch she wore for the occasion, handing it to the princess. “I wore it especially tonight,” she said. “That was a moment I shall never forget. It led me to the Conservatory and began my singing career.”

The princess smiled, a bright smile lighting her face as she examined the star-shaped sapphire brooch. “Why, that’s lovely!”

“You may have it, your highness. It’s surely a valuable keepsake from the late King, and would mean much to you.”

She shook her head soberly and returned it the jewel to Brienne. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Tarth. But I have too many jewels that I don’t know what to do with, and everything in this keep is a keepsake from my uncle. Memories from him I do not lack. You surely earned this brooch with your wonderful voice.” The girl looked at her fondly and chewed her lip. She reached into her pocket and revealed a small cream velvet box.

Speechless, Brienne opened the box and saw a star shaped sapphire ring, with a thick gold band. It was a match to her brooch.

“You must accept this gift, Miss Tarth. It would please me and honour me.” The Princess smiled at Brienne’s shocked face.

Brienne shook her head. “Your highness, this is absolutely not necessary. It’s too much!”

The young woman tilted her head. “The ring goes together with the brooch as a set, and it is right that you have it as well. Of course, it’s a man’s ring, but I’m sure it will look fine on your finger. Please.”

At the princess’ urging, Brienne slipped the ring on her middle finger, where it fit perfectly; she supposed the late King Robert was large and correspondingly had large hands.

“Please, Princess, this is too valuable a keepsake. I cannot accept.”

Brienne tried to return the ring, but the princess shook her head. She smiled and after a murmured goodbye, walking away, leaving Brienne with holding the box in her offered palm.

“You should keep it,” a voice said behind her. She turned around and blanched, seeing King Stannis stand stiffly beside her.

Brienne curtsied. “Your majesty.” She felt her mind turn blank in panic. The king looked at her with a mild sort of tolerance.

“Miss Tarth. It was an exquisite performance tonight. Your talents are even more evident in this small setting. I can see why the Princess is enamoured with you.”

“You are much too kind, your majesty.” Brienne said, marvelling at the man’s sharp face, balding head and tight jaw, so very different from his florid, gregarious elder brother. She offered him the box with the ring.

He looked at her, not unkindly. “Keep it, Miss Tarth. Put it on. The set does belong together, as the Princess says. It will make my daughter happy to have given you this gift. She admires you. She is rather inspired by you.” He looked at the Princess, who was sitting quietly next to a window, watching the gathering before her. Brienne could not help sense that the palpable loneliness emanating from the girl. “Her disfigurement has troubled her greatly throughout her life. And I think seeing someone like you – so different, so unconventional, if you would pardon my forwardness in saying so – succeed in so public a venue has very much given her strength. This I very much believe.”

She shook her head. “The Princess is a remarkable young woman. She will do much good, I think.”

King Stannis smiled faintly. “I know not how she obtained this goodness, but I am grateful for it nonetheless. She will make a better monarch than me or my brothers”

The King moved on then, and Brienne found herself in the company of Jaime, who handed her a glass of punch.

“You’ve collected another bauble, I see,” he said, smiling crookedly at her. “You do have a talent for impressing monarchs, wench.”

Brienne blushed, and gazed at the ring on her finger. “The Princess is all too generous.”

“It certainly suits you.” He took her hand and idly stroked her fingers and the ring. His touch felt much too intimate to be done in public. She looked around, self-conscious, and was startled to meet the stare of Queen Dowager Cersei, who Brienne had not noticed until now. She was standing next to King Stannis, her hand neatly tucked in his elbow. Brienne looked at Jaime, who followed her glance and drew in a breath as he spotted the lovely, golden figure of the beautiful Queen, his ex-lover.

“I didn’t know she was here,” he murmured. He frowned, let go of her hand.

“Ah, I was wondering when you’d notice the presence of our lovely cousin, brother.” Tyrion came up to them. He bowed at Brienne, smiling roguishly. “Miss Tarth. Lovely to see you after so many years. You have made quite a name for yourself out East, and are set to do the same in Westeros. I’m thrilled to hear you sing again.”

“Prime Minister. You have made quite a name for yourself as well.”

He grinned. “I suppose I have. It helps that this particular monarch does not have an innate hatred of me, unlike our former queen,” he said, his eyes going to Queen Cersei. “Although I hear she is trying her best to woo old Stannis. I can’t even imagine.”

Jaime looked at his brother with concern.

“Oh yes, dear brother. Our cousin is doing her best to capture another King. She is apparently trying very hard to _appear_ kind. Of course, she is the most beautiful woman in Westeros, hardly one to resist, right, brother?”

Jaime glared at his brother. “You know that’s all done with.”

Tyrion glanced at Brienne briefly, his one green eye and one black eye glittering. He turned again to Jaime. “Thank the gods for that. Still, I wonder if our new King would be able say no to such a beauty?”

Brienne turned away from the conversation, mumbling excuses, her stomach roiling and her chest tight. She wanted nothing to do with conversation. Cersei’s appearance had already made her nervous, recalling her icy venom all those years ago; the woman had ruined her life and upturned it with a casual cruelty, and it was only Brienne’s stubbornness and perseverance that brought her back to Westeros. She quickly excused herself and strode away, not stopping when Jaime called out to her.

Guests had started to leave, and the King and Princess had already retired for the night. Brienne put on her black waist-length cape with large silk embroidery and a high collar.

Robb appeared by her side. “There you are,” he said, smiling at her with his charming grin. “I was thinking of leaving myself.”

“Well, I have never been invited to court, but I assume that when the King leaves, we are allowed to as well.”

“Not a fan of the palace then?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Not in the least. I find it much too unsettling.”

He took her arm, hooking her elbow in his. “I can’t imagine how many ghosts roam the halls. I assume too many.”

She shivered, not wanting to reveal that the thing that unnerved her most was the very much living apparition of the former queen.

“I heard you got a new piece of jewelry,” Robb said, as he watched her put on her gloves.

“The Princess….”

He nodded. “She is a sweet girl. And smart. I’m glad the future of the realm will be in her hands one day.”

He looked at her with gentle eyes.

“Permit me to accompany you home, Brienne. My driver is just over there.” He gestured to a carriage nearby.

As they were on their way in the carriage, Robb turned to look at her as they made their way home. The night breeze through the open window of the carriage was scented with jasmine and stirred the soft curls of his auburn hair. He was extraordinarily handsome, his blue eyes remarkably bright.

“You know, Varys was right.” He looked at her through his thick eyelashes.

“Oh?”

“You’ve changed. You’re so different than when I first knew you five years ago.”

“Five years is a long time, Robb.”

He gave her an admiring look. “The way you carry the audience, the way you tell the story with your voice. Your voice has always been extraordinary, but it is even more so now. You have this power around you.” He leaned toward her, his face moving closer. “Such beauty.”

She huffed.

“You are beautiful, Brienne, don’t deny it. But not insipidly beautiful, but beautiful like how a forest at night is beautiful, or a violent storm. A diving falcon. Dangerous. Irresistible.”

He leaned closer, his blue eyes dark. He took her face in his warm hands and kissed her, his mouth soft and yearning. Brienne gasped in surprise and his tongue touched her bottom lip and entered her mouth. The kiss was sweet, passionate, but it posed a question.

He looked at her when he reluctantly pulled away.

“Robb. What are you doing?”

“I don’t know.” He placed a warm hand against her neck.

“I can’t.”

“I know.” His hand caressed her cheek, his eyes longing.

“You’re engaged.”

He looked at her intently. “Give me a reason not to be.”

“The only reason is for your own self, if you do not love your betrothed.” She sighed, squeezing his shoulder.

“You’re right. You cannot be my reason.” He lowered his head. “In any case, it’s no use. You’re in love with another.”

She drew back, her eyes widening in alarm. “What nonsense you spout. _I’m_ in love with another?”

He kissed the curve of her cheek lightly. “It’s obvious. You’re in love with Jaime Lannister.”

She made a noise of protest, but said nothing. She turned away from Robb and looked out the window, at the gas lit streets, dampened and slick by a brief rain. She listened to the soothing clicking of the hooves of the horses, closed her eyes to the movement of the carriage. It wasn’t true, surely. She wasn’t still in love with Jaime. They had succumbed to each other, brought each other pleasure, but surely it could not be love. She had never truly been in love, and she had always thought she would never be in love. Or perhaps she was fated to love wholeheartedly, but from a distance, never getting that love in return. Every fibre of her being wanted to deny Robb’s words, but she could not help but remember Jaime’s electric touches, his sharp smiles, his languorous voice, the fond way in which he teased her. He was devastating. Dangerous. And she was in love.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

A knock sounded on her hotel door, startling her from her reading. She placed the book face down on the coverlet, slipped out of the bed, and put on her thin blue wrapper over her simple white linen shift.

She opened the door a crack, and nearly gasped in surprise. She pulled the door open wider.

“Jaime.” He was standing there, still in his black evening tailcoat with silk lapels and a waistcoat decorated with red vines and leaves. His bowtie was askew, his hair shining and disarranged. His expression was unreadable, tension prominent in his jaw. The intense way that he looked at her made her blood grow warm.

“What are you doing here?”

“I recall you saying that I could call on you.” He casually slid through the door, his torso lightly brushing against her, sending a whiff of his clean, masculine smell to her.

“From what I know of society, callers usually come in the mornings, and their visits last only fifteen minutes,” she said wryly.

Jaime grinned roguishly.

“You do have a habit of barging into my rooms, as I recall,” Brienne continued, locking the door after him.

“So you do remember.” He looked around the well-appointed suite, its stately but impersonal furniture. The memory of that night in her tiny attic room pulsed in her memory.

“Do you intend to continue staying in hotels, wench? You’ve been here for months. Why haven’t you let a place of your own?”

She shrugged. “It’s convenient. The hotel is discreet and has a private back entrance.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m not certain how long I will be staying in King’s Landing this time around.”

“Hmmm. You’re always running away.” He gave her a sharp, almost accusatory glance.

“It wasn’t my choice the last time, as I recall. Your lover had a great deal to do with it, I seem to remember.”

Jaime winced.

“I grant you that. Still, isn’t that what you do? Run away when things get complicated?”

“What are you talking about, Jaime?”

“I’m talking about us. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I regret that,” she replied honestly, guilt squeezing at her chest. “But I thought you were back with Cersei – you went away without a single word or message. I thought your silence was the message. I thought you decided on her. She had wanted – wanted – you and her to be a family. I thought it would be easier for both of us if I just left.”

“You were wrong.”

She frowned. “You can’t tell me that you didn’t comfort your Queen when King Robert died, that she didn’t come to your bed in tears, requesting pleas and reassurance.”

“She did try,” he admitted. “But things between us hadn’t been right for a long time, you know that. You witnessed how she treated me.” He sighed. “I found that I didn’t love her anymore, and she never truly loved me.” His eyes raked over her body. “All I could do was think of you.”

He drew close, their bodies nearly touching. His bright emerald eyes searched her face.

“There is something between us, Brienne. Admit it.”

“Jaime. You mustn’t,” she whispered. Yet she found herself moving her face closer to his.

“I want you,” he murmured kissing her jaw and cheeks and moving ever closer to her mouth. The string that had been holding her back snapped, and she felt herself wanting – no, _needing_ to succumb to this man before her.

“Jaime,” she moaned, as their lips touched and melded and the warmth of him singed through her.

“I want you. I want all of you.” He grasped at her almost desperately. His mouth opened under hers and the touch of his tongue against hers drew a shudder from her. She scrunched up the silk of his lapels and pulled him flush against her. His body was hard, all muscle and coiled energy. He moaned as he pressed into her. His hardness pushed against her hip.

She was all undone, lost in his kisses that drew languorous pulls of pleasure from her whole being. She wantonly kissed his neck, licked the length of his throat, around his Adam’s apple, and her hands mapped the planes of his shoulders and the muscles of his back. She grasped his firm backside with her hands, drawing a growl from deep in his throat. She led him to the bedroom.

He untied the belt of her flimsy wrapper and pushed the garment off her shoulders, allowing it to fall down on the floor in a blue pool of silk. Jaime stepped back, staring at her in her plain, thin shift, his eyes roaming over her neck, the faint outlines of her pebbled nipples, the long expanse of her bare legs. He looked at her like a starving man.

“Your turn,” she said, slowly undressing him, taking care to place his gold cufflinks on the dressing table. She draped his jacket and waistcoat over a chair; soon the rest of his clothes were piled on neatly on to the chair, and Jaime was standing naked in front of her, wearing nothing but his drawers, his desire evident. He looked at her with a kind of hungry adulation that made desire pool at the heated juncture of her thighs. She took a deep breath as she pulled off her thin shift leaving her naked and bare. Jaime drew in a breath, his darkened eyes examining every inch of her freckled skin, every dip, every line and every curve. His glance lingered on her blond curls between her thighs, and he looked up at her, his mouth wet and open. He pulled down his drawers and stepped out of them, allowing his cock to spring free.

They had never regarded each other in full light, in all their vulnerable nakedness. She marvelled at Jaime’s body, which seemed like some sort of miracle, with his golden skin, his well-developed chest, his muscular arms, the thick, strong thighs, his flat and chiseled stomach and the vee of his hip, pointing to the long, stiff insistence of his jutting cock, framed by the silky, golden curls of his groin. She remembered the taste of him on that veranda at Olenna Tyrell’s party, how good his cock felt in her mouth. The thought of it made her squirm as she felt herself getting even wetter.

Jaime’s eyes went wide as he noticed the lust in her expression. He stepped toward her, and started tracing her shoulders, her collarbone, down her sternum and the modest curves of her breasts. She gasped, and reached out to Jaime, touching him with the same, almost feather-light touches. His nipples grew stiff as she ran her fingers over them, and Jaime trembled as she caressed his chest, his stomach and down to his thighs.

They both gasped as their bodies tentatively met, chest to chest, hip to hip. Jaime’s cock rubbed against her mound and belly, making both of them groan. He kissed her with a fury, putting all of his pent up desire in his kisses. He squeezed her hard, making her gasp. He walked her backward to the bed and she sank under him as he lowered their bodies onto the bed.

“Gods, Brienne,” Jaime murmured over and over, as he placed feverish, searing kisses on her neck and chest, as he sucked and swirled his tongue around her berry pink nipple, making her bow her body up toward his lips.

“How do your kisses make me feel so good,” Brienne heard herself mutter incoherently. Jaime chuckled into her chest as he kissed and sucked lower and lower.

“Your freckles taste amazing,” he said, beaming up at her.

Before she could let out a protest, she cried out instead, as Jaime kissed her cunt and ran his tongue up and down her seam. She writhed under his mouth, and she felt herself swell and flood with arousal. When he put a finger into her, she involuntarily bucked her hips and let out a wild cry. She looked down her body and saw the muscles of his shoulders flexing with the movement of his head. His two hands splayed her open almost obscenely as he feasted on her cunt, making smacking and wet noises.

“Gods, Jaime,” she moaned, feeling her thighs and pelvis tremble. His mouth was intent on her nub now, his tongue insistent, his fingers curling and pressing, as her pleasure climbed and climbed, and she rose and rose, until she shook and cried out and her vision went white.

He came up and kissed her, his mouth tasting of her, as his tongue languidly explored her mouth, making her limbs even more liquid.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Jaime said, looking deeply into her eyes. Brienne felt tears prick her own eyes but blinked them away. Instead, she concentrated on the god of man before her, glistening and golden and under her complete control. He moaned when she kissed his neck and sucked his nipples, when she ran her fingers down the ridges of his abdomen. And when he curled her fingers around his thick length, Jaime groaned and bucked. He fisted the blankets as her mouth surrounded his cock as she drew his heavy, velvety shaft in and out of her mouth, her tongue pressing on the underside of his cock as she bobbed her head. When she twirled her tongue around the head of his cock, Jaime shouted and placed a hand on her head, stopping her movement, his breaths heavy and panting.

She looked up, concerned. Jaime’s cheeks flooded with pink, his eyes wiled with desire. “If you continue like this, I’ll spend too soon.” He pulled her body up on top of his so he could kiss her. “I want to be inside you, Brienne.”

She was aching for him. Putting her mouth on him had made her even wetter. Jaime moved her leg so she was straddling him. She looked at him with comprehension. “Like riding a horse,” she murmured. He chuckled as he held the base of his cock for her. When she sank down on him, she cried out at the immediate fullness and he groaned with pleasure.

“You feel so good,” he gasped, palming her small breasts, lying helpless and stupefied with pleasure under her.

She moved her hips experimentally, eliciting a variety of moans from Jaime, and she started moving up and down in earnest, as his hands held her hips. His cock felt full and seemed to touch every surface inside her, and she felt jolts of pleasure every time she slammed down on his hard cock. She ground down and felt startling shocks as her nub rubbed against the base of him, and the feeling built and built until she felt a thunderbolt of pleasure run through her as she felt her cunt squeeze rhythmically. Jaime stared up, his body writhing under her, his hips thrusting up. He was moaning incoherently, gasping, as his hands on her hips pressed harder and as he bucked harder and harder up into her. He arched his body, the muscles of his torso tense, and shouted as he slammed up deep into her, his cock swelling as he erupted inside her in slow, long pulses.

He collapsed on the bed, his eyes closed, his body shuddering with aftershocks. She ran her fingers in his hair, stroking him, as she felt a warmth suffuse her whole body.

She rolled off him with a moan, his seed painting her inner thigh as his half-turgid cock withdrew from her. She vaguely wanted to get up to wash up, but Jaime nuzzled his nose at her neck and wrapped his arms and legs around her, giving her little kisses on her cheek and neck.

She turned to her side, facing him, and she felt a rush of happiness as he smiled at her with a tender expression; any exhaustion from his face disappeared and his skin was glistening, and his cheeks pink. He looked beautiful and sated and relaxed, but he stared at her with a strange earnestness.

Brienne suddenly felt shy under his gaze. “Why are you staring at me, Jaime?” Her voice was tinged with affection.

“It’s just that,” he murmured, as he gave her a lingering kiss on her swollen lips. “I want to remember this moment forever. How you look. Your skin. Your blushes, your lips. I’ve never seen anyone more lovely than you are at this moment, Brienne.”

She felt her flash blaze with heat, as she nestled her face in his neck, wanting to hide.

Jaime chuckled. “Still blushing, I see.” He drew her closer.

Brienne felt warm and her body felt wrung out in the best possible way; she did not question the surge of affection she felt, nor the feeling of the world being right that suffused her while she was in Jaime’s arms. Instead, she felt the movement of his breaths, lulled by the rhythmic sound of his breathing, and drifted off to sleep.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The next morning, Jaime watched her dress, his eyes raking over her form as she slipped on sensible white cotton drawers and chemise. He lounged on the bed, still naked, barely covered by bedsheets, his chest bare and golden. His eyes continued to follow her hands she rolled up black silk stockings from her foot to her thigh, securing it with garters right above her knee. He made an appreciative grunt as she put on a lightly boned cream-coloured corset, securing the tiny hooks in the front; Brienne could never tolerate restrictive corsets, which did nothing to improve her shape, and she found that a lightly boned ones served her best, especially when she was singing. She was a little perturbed at the way Jaime was looking at her, as if he wanted to devour her. Again.

“Shouldn’t you also get dressed?” Brienne gave him an affectionate glare.

Jaime grinned. “And miss the show? Never.”

Brienne went pink. “Jaime….”

“I’ve never seen anything more stimulating.” He threw back the white sheets, revealing a pink-tipped cock, already hard.

She widened her eyes, reddening even further. Last night was a revelation of sorts for her. They had made love and fallen asleep in each other’s arms; then, in the middle of the night, she awoke to find Jaime at her back, his hardness pressed against her, and she ground her bottom against him as he cupped her meagre breasts and lowered his hand to her cunt. He entered her from behind, and they rocked into each other, making love slowly until she clenched around him and he groaned his pleasure into her neck. They fell back asleep with his cock still inside her.

“Come here, wench.” Jaime scooted toward her, sitting on the edge of the bed, his cock jutting out and waving. She could not help but admire it, its pleasing straightness, the apparent enthusiasm it had for her. It was already glistening at the tip.

Jaime caught her looking and smiled smugly. “Like what you see, my lady?” He practically purred.

“You’re going to make me late.”

“Come here,” he whined as he pulled her close so she was standing in front of him in her undergarments.

He growled and pulled her hips forward, pulling open the centre seam of her drawers and immediately attaching his mouth to her cunt. She squealed in surprise, then moaned as his tongue darted out, tasting her and entering her with his tongue, his hands cupping her ass and pushing her core even closer to his mouth. She came within minutes, wild cries escaping free of her own volition. Her legs buckled under her and Jaime eased her back on to the bed. He entered her abruptly, plunging hard into her, the sudden sensation of his fullness inside prolonging her release as he thrust frantically into her. He came quickly, with an urgent cry, kissing her, his hot panting breaths mingling with hers. He moaned as he carefully pulled out as she lay insensible and stunned, and returned quickly with a wet washcloth. He gingerly cleaned up his seed on her thigh and mound, giving it sweet kisses as he wiped her clean. She sat up, smoothing her hair.

“Now you can go to rehearsal with my seed still inside you, wench.” He smiled pleased and cheeky smile that made her mouth twitch.

Jaime helped her finish her dress, aiding her in tying her small bustle, and buttoning up her tiny buttons of her cornflower blue day dress.

He looked at her admiringly. “You should always wear blue.”

She kissed him, suddenly overwhelmed by the adoring look in her eyes. She went to her dressing table, and carefully measured out a tincture from and amber bottle, mixing it with some water and gulping it down.

“What is that, wench?”

She looked at him. “It’s moon tincture.”

“Moon tincture? As in moon tea?”

She nodded. “Women here brew the tea, to prevent getting with child,” she said with a flush on her cheek. “But in Dorne, the apothecaries instead sell these tinctures, which has proven to be much more effective and reliable than brewing the tea on your own. Ellaria introduced it to me.”

Jaime at once looked interested but relieved. He shook his head sheepishly. “I hadn’t even thought of getting you with child. Gods, I should have been more careful.”

She shrugged. “You learn how people do things once you’ve traveled the world. I’ve learned to take responsibility for myself, in any case.”

Brienne wasn’t surprised that Jaime hadn’t thought of the possibility of getting her pregnant. It was often the last thing on a man’s mind in the heat of passion, Brienne knew from the conversations she’s had with women.

Jaime in the meantime had dressed quickly, looking rumpled and handsome in his evening suit. He kissed her again and again, and she kissed him back, savoring his taste on her lips and tongue.

“Come to mine, Brienne. Tonight. Tomorrow. Whenever you can.” He looked at her and grinned. “Now that I have you, I’m never letting you go.”

She gave him a long look and nodded her assent, a thrill traveling up her spine at his words, a new hope starting to seed within her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next updates starting next Monday, when we will conclude the story.
> 
> Jon Snow the painter makes an appearance! (See [A Painted Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23878267/chapters/57400375), a J/B contemporary art story.)


	12. Twelve: Promenades

Queen Dowager Cersei had taken to riding and walking around the streets of Kings Landing, surrounded by bodyguards in somber black uniforms. Every morning, she would appear in the middle of a park or boulevard, dressed in the most elaborate, lovely walking dresses. Her waist was cinched tightly to emphasize her impossibly small waist, and her fine blond curls were pinned in an updo, topped by a jaunty hat. She was beautiful and was at the peak of her beauty, still young at twenty-eight. She turned heads and carriages suddenly stopped when her lithe figure with its feline green eyes, bright complexion and rosy lips appeared. She walked briskly or rode a white stallion, not interacting with anyone, seemingly content to ride or walk on her on the wide boulevards of the park or along fashionable streets as if she were the only person in existence.

Within a week, her pictures appeared in the papers, and the public applauded when they glimpsed her graceful form. Women of the city started to imitate the tight corseting and the pale pastels of her dresses, the curls of her golden hair and the way she pinned them up. Vendors sold cards depicting engravings of her fashionable form. Soon, the former Queen became one of the most beloved and admired figures in King’s Landing, even more admired than when King Robert was alive.

There were rumours that King Stannis was to take the former Queen as his new bride, and those rumours were further fueled by the frequent appearance of Cersei by the King’s side during royal events, both official and unofficial. The Queen also made appearances at orphanages and hospitals, her presence often being accompanied by substantial donations.

What Jaime thought of Cersei’s sudden reemergence into the public eye, or the talk of a romance with the King, Brienne could not claim to guess. His eyes glided over the daily mentions of the former queen, ignored photographs of her stunning figure in the society pages – posing on her horse, or looking innocent and lovely with wide-eyed orphans – and pretended as if he did not know her, as if he had not been in love with her since they were children. Occasionally, Brienne would spot a the rich, thick envelope from the Queen, yet he never went to her.

Instead, Jaime threw himself into work – for weeks he sat hunched over his piano, feverishly jotting down notes, playing a fragment of a melody, then picking up his pen. Brienne watched him, fascinated, when she visited. For she did visit him, often, especially now that the opera had closed, after a blisteringly successful run. After their night of passion in her suite, things shifted once again; they had resumed a tentative friendship, each of them tender with each other, but somehow physically timid in the way they interacted. They kissed but did not allow themselves to lose their heads to passion; it was as if that night that they finally spent in each other’s arms knocked something loose within them. Jaime often looked at her strangely, thoughtful but silent.

At times, Brienne felt that there was chasm in front of her that she dared not look into or cross. Being with Jaime was terrifying – she did not want to need him or want him as much as she did, and there was a very good chance of her falling over the precipice. She held herself tight, her desires even tighter. She felt if she allowed herself to love him as she longed to do, she would splinter apart, and the identity that she had carefully gathered together and held fiercely would scatter like autumn leaves in the wind.

“What are you working on, Jaime?” Brienne said, as he started at her entrance, frantically piling up the papers that were scattered all over the top of his piano into somewhat neat stacks.

He stood up and strode toward her, smiling and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. “You’ll find out soon enough. I’m still in the midst of it, and it’s much too fragile to show to anyone at this early stage.”

She allowed him to guide her to the divan and sit her down. She accepted a small glass of sherry. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you this secretive before, Jaime.”

His eyes glinted merrily. “I had no idea you were so curious, wench.”

She hummed. “Well, maybe I won’t tell you about my own secret project.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow and moved closer, his thighs pressing against hers. He leaned forward. “Oh? A secret project? A new opera perhaps?” He carefully took her still full glass of sherry from her fingers and placed it on the side table. “Not another one with Stark as your leading man, I hope.”

“Gods, what is it and your obsession with Robb?” Her voice was teasing and affectionate. Jaime grinned and took her hand, tracing her long fingers with his own.

“Never mind that. Is it another opera?”

She shook her head. “No luck in that realm. Roles that are deemed appropriate for me are, how shall I say – well, rather difficult to obtain. No one wants to see a freakish, hulking leading lady, especially one that towers over the dashingly handsome tenors.”

He made a disapproving noise and raised her hand and kissed it. “None of that. You’ve proven you can hold your own opposite Stark and annihilate the dull soprano Margaery Tyrell with your presence.”

She turned to him and stroked his cheek, smiling sadly. “It’s kind of you to say so, Jaime. But the opera world simply does not see it that way.”

“I’m sure that a role will come to you in time, wench. Sometimes you need to be patient.”

“I know.” She shrugged and suddenly brightened.

He gave her a curious look. “So what is this secret endeavour that you are hinting at?”

She let out a pleased smile. “So my project…I’m going to be returning to the circus for one night only.”

He widened his eyes. “What?”

She nodded eagerly. “It will be the circus’ tenth anniversary, and they have asked me if I wanted to reprise my show when they return to King’s Landing in about a month’s time.”

“That’s wonderful. The Blue Angel returns, for one night only.”

“It is, isn’t it? I’m excited. I do miss it sometimes, you know.” She idly ran her fingers up and down Jaime’s burgundy lounge jacket. “I’m looking forward to spending a week with the troupe. I think they’ll be in the Riverlands when I’ll join them.”

Jaime raised his head in alarm, a frown on his face. “What’s this? You’ll be going away?”

She looked up blankly at him. “Of course. I need to prepare. I’ll only be a week away. And we’ll have another week here in King’s Landing before the show opens for the final, anniversary show.”

Jaime sulked. “But I’ll miss you. Must you go?” He clasped his arms around her waist and squeezed, making her squeal.

“You’re a ridiculous child, you know that?”

He grinned. He kissed her cheek and rested his head on her shoulder. She couldn’t help but stroke his hair. He kissed her cheek again, and she turned her head as he came in for another. Their lips met. He gasped. She felt lightheaded as soon as their lips touched and he turned to her fully, opening his mouth and kissing her hungrily. She felt devoured, and her whole body tingled.

Panting, he broke off the kiss. His green eyes were swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, his lips wet and swollen from their kisses. She wanted him. She wanted his lips all over, wanted him inside her. He stared at her, his breaths heavy.

“Jaime-”

“We shouldn’t.” His words belied the hunger in his expression and body language. She had half a mind to fling him down, undress him and take him inside her.

“Jaime.”

“You’re an honourable woman. I don’t want to dishonour you, Brienne. I have too much respect for you.”

“What? I don’t understand-”

“I don’t want you to be my mistress. You’re too good for that.”

“That’s why we haven’t-” She furrowed her brow, flabbergasted.

“Yes.” He frowned at her and tilted his head. “I thought you understood.”

She furrowed her brow, a foreboding feeling starting to fog her mind. “I really don’t.”

“I want us to wait. Until it’s proper. Until I can make you mine.”

“What?”

“I love you, Brienne Tarth.” He paused, turning to her fully with his wide green eyes. “You would do me great honour if you agreed to be my wife.” He looked sincere and sheepish, his cheeks pink.

She stared at him.

“Gods, I didn’t want to ask it this way.” He ran off to his bedroom, muttering to himself, while Brienne sat there, stunned.

He came back, panting. He held out a blue velvet box and opened it, offering it to her.

Inside, was a simple band with a ruby surrounded by small diamonds. She gasped, unable to believe her own eyes.

“Brienne. Marry me.”

She stared at him, her face a mix of joy, incredulity and terror. A wave of darkness washed over her, making her head spin.

“I love you, Jaime.” His face softened at her words and a bright joy came over his features. She was devastated when she saw that expression turn to disbelief and anguish when she said the following words.

“I love you. But I can’t marry you.”

It was his turn to be stunned, and she used the opportunity to stand up and run from the room, into the hall, where she frantically grabbed her gloves and hat, and left his apartment. She ran down the stairs, her breath heaving, and found herself in a stone alcove off the lobby. Her chest felt tight, her throat constricted. She saw water fall on her glove and was surprised to learn that she was crying. The fat tears dropped one after the other, as she silently wept.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

He followed her to Riverrun. She arrived at the performance site and was flummoxed to see Jaime, dressed informally in a billowing white shirt and tight riding trousers which hugged his muscular thighs, lounging in Oberyn’s caravan, looking at her with a terribly amused expression.

“I think I’ve finally found my tribe, wench.”

“Jaime! What on earth are you doing here?”

Oberyn looked on the two of them, his lips quirked into a crooked smile. “Jaime has volunteered to compose the music for the anniversary show. How could I say no?”

Jaime nodded at Brienne. “I’ve always been fascinated by the circus. And I want to see you work, if I’m to be frank. Perhaps I can help you with the songs, although I would be useless in any kind of acrobatics.”

She pursed her lips, feeling peeved and pleased at the same time. She could not ignore the surge of happiness when she spotted Jaime’s stupid golden head and his legs, temptingly spread open in his sprawl.

“Hmmm. Well, as long as you don’t get in my way.”

He grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it, wench.”

Jaime followed her to her quarters, a caravan usually reserved for guests. It was small, but the bed was comfortable enough. He looked around the space curiously. Bounced on the bed, testing it.

“If I’m in here, where are you staying?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Nothing but the best accommodation for a Lannister. Well, since my arrival was last minute, they’ve shoved me into the storage caravan. There’s a flimsy fold out cot there. But I despair that props will rain down upon me as I sleep.”

“Oh. That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”

“Well, it was that or share the bed with Oberyn and Ellaria, and given their very friendly overtures, I’d rather take my chances with ladders and bags of grain.”

“They’re really very harmless, you know.” She could not help smile in amusement.

“That may be, but the only bed I’m willing to share is with you.”

“I thought you didn’t want to dishonor me?” Brienne’s tone was light, jocular.

He grinned. “What I want and what I want are two entirely different things, it seems.”

Brienne was glad to be back in the circus again. There were plenty of people she didn’t know, but most of the gang was still there. She even elicited a genuine smile from Sandor when he glimpsed her with the horses. Arya threw herself at Brienne and chatted, while Gendry, her partner (in more ways than one, she suspected) looked on with amusement. Quaithe and Maggy she did not see, but Daenerys smiled at her, and her husband, the new strong man Khal Drogo, was similarly kind. The circus also had a new Maester who was traveling with them, a wiry, white-haired older man called Qyburn. He seemed unobtrusive and rather pleasant and helpful.

The horses that Brienne worked with years earlier were brought back from their farm on the Quiet Isle, and the creatures took to the work as if it were yesterday, though they were much older and less spirited. To Brienne’s delight, they remembered her and were able to relearn the routine easily. Sugar, her main horse, nudged her with affection from time to time and she could hardly help but kiss him back.

“I shouldn’t be jealous of a horse, should I?” Jaime quipped.

She gave him a glare, which made Jaime laugh.

Jaime was less useless than she thought. He composed music for her show, to be played between the songs that she sung. She found that the orchestration gave her show much more depth and a sense of narrative. Working with Jaime was something special – he was around all the time, gave her pointers when he wasn’t hungrily looking at her legs and how they moved. Far from being annoying, she very much liked him being there. Less entertaining was when Arya also watched, and the two would devolve into adolescent bickering. Still, she loved being around the young woman, who was confident, determined, and had a strength of mind that Brienne was in awe of.

“What is going on with you and Lannister?” Arya asked her, when they were out in the field one morning, in front of targets. She had been teaching Brienne how to throw knives, and she could tell that Arya was impressed by how well she was doing. She was able to hit the target since her first throw, though they lacked the precision and lethality of Arya’s own thrown knives.

Brienne was silent, and instead threw a knife at the target. The blade dug into the canvas with a satisfying thunk.

“I’ve seen the way you look at each other. He follows you around like a lost lion.”

Brienne frowned and looked at her pointedly. “What’s going on with you and Gendry? I would say the same about him.”

Arya shrugged. “We’re lovers. We share a caravan.”

She was speechless at the young woman’s words.

The dark-haired woman frowned. “Don’t look at me like that. You remind me of my mother and Sansa. I’ve got enough grief from them as it is by running off to join the circus.”

“I’m sure they’re just worried about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Arya said a-matter-of-factly. “I’m taking moon tincture that Ellaria introduced to me, so there won’t be a bastard baby.”

“You don’t want to get married someday?”

“Why should I? I’m don’t want to be a lady. I have everything I want already. I don’t need to belong to a man, no matter how well I like him.”

Arya narrowed her eyes and looked intently at Brienne. “Ah. But _you_ do. You want to get married, have a family, don’t you?”

“I don’t know-”

“I know Lannister does, from the way he moons over you. I feel sorry for him, having to curl himself into that storage caravan. I’m sure he hasn’t been sleeping well at all.” Her eyes had a sly glint to them.

Arya have her an odd smile. “You know, I used to think that you’d end up joining us, the Starks, I mean. I was sure Robb wanted you. If not Robb, then Jon. You should have heard how moony they were when they were talking about you after you visited Winter House. Jon looked like he’d met the object of his nightly fantasies, if you know what I mean.”

Brienne blushed wildly at her absurd intimations, turned away from the girl, and threw a knife with a particular viciousness as Arya looked amusedly on.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Brienne walked arm in arm with Jaime, weaving between couples walking slowly, children squealing with excitement, and groups of young men and women standing in groups, eyeing each other. Violin music filtered out of the main tent, and the smell of caramel apples and fried, sugary donuts wafted in the air. There was a feeling of happiness around them, as if the cares of the crowd had been dropped off at the gate, to be retrieved later.

“This is one of the best things about being with the circus – you get to see all of the excitement of all the people, knowing that you’ve made them happy for a few hours, made them forget their everyday worries.”

Jaime nodded, smiling at her fondly. “It certainly is different from the concert or opera going crowd. I can see why it appealed to you.”

“Oh?”

“Traveling from place to place, seeing new things, always meeting new faces. Feeling like you’re always moving forward. I imagine there was a sense of freedom to it.”

“Yes, that part of it excited me, especially having never left Tarth when I was growing up.” She looked at him sadly. “But it got tiresome after a time, being itinerant, never having a home. Honestly, after that first year, my favourite thing was the off season when we settled back in Dorne. It felt good to be in one place, wake up in the same city day after day.”

“So you wouldn’t go back to this life?”

She shook her head. “I’d like to settle somewhere. If things don’t work in King’s Landing, I’d be happy to return to Dorne to sing."

“You would consider staying in King’s Landing permanently?”

“Yes, of course I would. I don’t know if the city would like to have me, that’s the problem.”

Jaime ran off to a booth and returned with a couple cups of warm, spiced wine. The night had made the air cool. She sipped it gratefully.

“I loved going on tours, but I never wanted to stray far from King’s Landing.” Jaime observed. “But it wasn’t the city that drew me, I never wanted to be far away from-” He broke off suddenly.

“From Cersei.”

He grimaced, but nodded.

She hesitated. “Do you miss her?”

He frowned. “I miss the memory of her, that young girl who depended on me and loved me, but Cersei hasn’t been that for years. She’s changed, I’ve changed, and I stayed with her for too many years through force of habit.”

“The rumours of her and the King-”

“Doesn’t surprise me. She’s always wanted power and status more than any love anyone can give her. I just had to learn that the hard way.” He looked down at his hands.

“She still writes to you.” She remembered the thick cotton paper, the fine handwriting on the envelopes that were still delivered to his apartment.

“They are summons.” He looked at her evenly. “I throw them into the fire.”

She stepped closer. “And do you wish that things were different?”

“With her? No. I’m happier now without her than I ever was with her.”

She paused, looking at his all too handsome face. “I’m glad.”

They slowly strolled back to the performers’ quarters. Because the circus is still open, the place was nearly deserted, though Brienne could hear faint laughter and applause every once in a while. They stopped at her caravan, and she opened the door to invite Jaime in.

“I’m even happier now that we’re friends again. We’re very, very good friends. Close friends, are we not?” He grinned as he said those words. She felt his body’s heat seeping into hers.

“The best of friends. Intimate friends even,” Brienne murmured, intoxicated by the depth of his eyes.

When their lips met, she could not help but let out a moan. His mouth was moving on hers, hungry, the heat of him near feverish. He sucked and licked at her mouth, and she slid her tongue against his, making him clutch at her, pulling her close. There was nothing else in the universe but Jaime and his skin and his kisses. She frantically unbuttoned his shirt, pulled of his undershirt so his bare chest with its smattering of soft chest hair was revealed. She ran her hands over his chest, pinched his nipples, making him cry out. Brienne wanted to taste every contour of his skin. She quickly unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down, along with his drawers, until there Jaime stood in the middle of her cramped caravan, naked and wanting and staring at her with a ravenous hunger.

He reached for her, unbuttoning her dress, managing to undo the first few hooks of her corset. She reached for his cock, holding his hardness in her hand and squeezing. Jaime moaned and moaned even louder as she stroked up and down his shaft. He kissed her passionately, then panted into her neck. A bead of wetness gathered on the tip of his cock and Brienne rubbed the wetness all over with a thumb. Jaime flung back his head and groaned.

“Fuck. Brienne.” He reached out, stopped her pumping hand. He pushed her down on the bed, so she was on her hands and knees, her backside facing him, and he rucked up her skirts, pulled down her drawers, and dipped a finger into her, the wetness at her core parting and her softness surrounding him.

“You’re already so wet for me, Brienne,” he moaned, sounding utterly lost, his other hand pulling out a small breast and pinching her nipple while his other hand explored her folds and started rubbing her nub in small circles. She whined and squirmed under the ministrations of his hands, and she could feel her cunt swelling and getting wetter. His fingers on her numb went faster, as she felt his hardness rub against her cleft, and Brienne felt herself grow warm all over as pleasure rose in waves until she broke open with a wild cry, rapture running through her.

“Jaime, please.” Brienne said, desperate for him to be inside her.

He gave a groan as he lined himself up to her cunt and sheathed his cock inside her with one hard stroke.

“Gods, Brienne.” Jaime moaned and paused inside her. He took a few breaths and started plunging into her, at first slow, then as their pleasure increased, he was fucking into her hard, his every thrust making her cunt spasm and tingle. His hands on her hips steadied her as the force of his thrusts juggled the whole of her body. She pushed back at him with every stroke, and his cock reached a certain spot inside her that made her jolt with pleasure.

“There, Jaime, don’t stop!” She cried.

He was relentless in battering that spot, and soon, she felt herself explode in pleasure, her cunt squeezing and rippling around him.

“Fuck, oh fuck, Brienne, so good-” He gasped, his breaths stuttering.

At her internal contractions around his cock, Jaime himself came with a shout, holding her hips still, pouring his seed inside her in powerful, hot streams. She collapsed on the bed and he pulled out and crumpled beside her, his body limp and sweaty. Smiling, Brienne got up, dampened wet cloths from the water jug and basin, and carefully wiped Jaime and her own privates.

“You didn’t even manage to undress me,” Brienne joked. She felt warm all over, and liked that he wanted her so much that he was impatient for her.

Jaime, roused at last, laughed and gently helped her out of her dress, corset, drawers and chemise until she was entirely naked.

He placed his arms around her and drew her close, his breaths slow and steady.

“Hmmm. What happened to not wanting to dishonour me?”

He groaned. “It was a stupid idea, I admit it. I can’t deny myself of you any more, Brienne.” He looked at her with clear, green eyes. “Though I still want to marry you, and make things right.”

Brienne started, but Jaime continued, “Maybe not now – I can see that you’re unsure, but whenever you feel ready. I want to be with you, Brienne. Always.”

She nodded, suddenly shy. A part of her wanted to fling her own fears out the window and just say yes.

“Thank you, Jaime,” she said, kissing him tenderly.

He made a pleased sound, kissing her neck.

“I suppose in that case, you can sleep here instead of in storage,” she said teasingly.

Jaime exhaled. “Oh thank gods. It’s only a matter of time that a cast iron pan or one of Drogo’s dumbbells would fall on my head and kill me.”

Brienne giggled, and squeezed his chest. “You owe me your life, I suppose,” Brienne joked.

Jaime kissed her, and settled back to bed, arranging blankets around them. “Oh, that I do, Brienne,” he murmured.

She listened to Jaime’s breathing become steady and regular, as he drifted off to sleep. She felt heated, her blood slowing to a pleasant thrum, and a cozy sort of contentment settled within her. Soon, the night carried her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting chapters to conclude the story all this week.


	13. Thirteen: Visitation

They were led to the inner palace through room after room filled with elegant furnishings, rich brocades, and paintings that were hundreds of years old. Bright blues, yellows and reds dappled the stone floor as light shone through the intricate stained glass windows. The crisp echoes of their footfalls echoed along the stone corridors.

Brienne was nervous, and had dressed carefully that day, choosing a cream and navy striped afternoon dress which was embellished with pleats and trimmed with silk ribbon. Even Arya seemed to have dressed up, wearing a dark green gown with a subtle bustle, though she seemed as unruffled as ever, as they were led by one of the guards through labyrinthine hallways. Brienne dared not look at the young woman beside her – Arya’s dark eyes seemed much too full of mischief, though her mouth was tight and controlled.

The two of them were led to a spacious sitting room, which was decorated in shades of yellow, though the settee and plush armchairs were a creamy, velvety pink. At the window seat sat Princess Shireen, a tiny figure dressed in pink and lace, wholly eclipsed by her the decorations of her own chamber. Brienne saw a little melancholy in the way the princess held her shoulders and remembered the solitary girl that sat alone at the reception, tinged by loneliness.

“Miss Tarth and Miss Stark,” the tall, dark-haired guard announced to the princess.

“Thank you, Osmund,” the Princess said. The guard stood aside and looked at them curiously.

“You may go and leave us,” the Princess gently said. The guard nodded and bowed, and with a final disapproving look at Brienne and Arya, left the room.

The Princess regarded them warmly, and gestured for them to sit, as she moved to an armchair. The door opened and uniformed women rushed in and set up tea, sandwiches, and various sorts of delectable cakes and pastries enough for a party of ten. The maids left as quickly as they came in.

“Thank you for visiting, Miss Tarth, Miss Arya.”

“It is our honour to receive your invitation, your highness.” Brienne smiled and accepted a cup of tea from the Princess.

“It is indeed a true honour, your highness,” Arya added in a small voice, fidgeting in her seat.

The princess was only twelve, and yet she already had the comportment of a grown woman. There was a steadiness to her hands when she served them tea. Yet her hands were small, her body tiny, her face round and sweet.

“I’m a great admirer of your circus, Miss Arya. Miss Tarth, as you know, I’m a tremendous fan of yours already. I was thrilled to hear of the anniversary performance next week. I look forward to seeing it. I never got the chance to see you perform in the circus Miss Tarth.”

“I’m sure it won’t disappoint,” Arya said, smiling. “Miss Tarth has been hard at work, and we’ve reserved a special seating area for your majesty.”

“I’m rather excited. Miss Arya, tell me, you perform with knives?” the Princess said with a curious smile that lit up her face. When she smiled, one hardly noticed the dull grey scars on her face.

Arya grinned. “I do, your highness. I do all sorts of tricks with them. In the act, I throw them at an annoying boy.”

The princess gave her a delighted look.

They sat in pleasant silence, with Brienne nibbling at a cucumber sandwich. They smiled at each other.

The princess let out an almost imperceptible sigh and looked at them tentatively. “Would you – I understand the protocols around royalty – but would you address me as Shireen? I really mislike this formality, and I would like us to be friends, if it please you.”

Arya grinned and her shoulders visibly relaxed. “Hello Shireen, I’m Arya.”

Shireen beamed and shook Arya’s hand.

“And I’m Brienne.” The young lady shook Brienne’s hands and squeezed it lightly.

At that, the formal façade between them dropped, as they tucked into the tea with gusto as each of them piled an absurd amounts of clotted cream and strawberry preserves on their scones. Arya regaled the princess with stories about the circus, leaving both of them gasping with laughter. The princess seemed utterly delighted at the informal turn of events, staring at them with wide, joyous eyes and giggling at the stories that both of them told. It appeared that the princess had few friends, having spent most of her time with Septas, tutors, and always accompanied by two imposing guards.

They ended up on the impeccable green lawn next to the rose garden, with Arya and Brienne showing the princess cartwheels, handstands, and various acrobatics, to the giddy delight of the princess. They were in the midst of demonstrating the splits, with the princess mimicking them, when Brienne spotted the King walking toward them, in arm with Cersei. Brienne elbowed Arya, and both of them quickly rose and curtsied stiffly. Shireen, still laughing, frowned at the change and looked behind her. She sheepishly stood up, smoothing her pink gown.

“Father.” She curtsied. “Dowager Queen Cersei.” She gestured to them. “You know Miss Tarth. This is Miss Stark, of the Dornish Circus of Dreams. They were kind enough to visit at my invitation.”

King Stannis looked at them curiously, but his mouth held the bud of a smile. “Miss Tarth. A pleasure to see you again. And Miss Stark, delighted to meet you. We look forward to seeing your performances next week. Princess Shireen has been excited about it as soon as we heard about the performance, and of course, I readily agreed that you should come visit and further her acquaintance.”

Cersei nodded at them, smiling a beautiful smile, though her eyes were cold. “It is certainly a lovely day to take the air.” The woman gave Brienne a particularly icy look.

The lovely blonde turned to the King. “Surely the princess can have better company than entertainers? We must think about her moral education, your majesty.”

The King gave Cersei sharp look. “I see no harm in allowing my daughter to be in company of such talents of her own sex and for whom she has such admiration.”

Cersei squeezed the Kings arm and nodded. “Of course, your majesty. I had no idea you were acquainted with the virtues of these particular entertainers. I did not intend to paint them all with the same brush.”

Cersei turned to them, her head held high and stiff. “I’m sure both of you have many diverting stories.”

Brienne nodded, as Arya looked at her with narrowed eyes.

The King nodded firmly. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Ladies.”

As the King and Queen Cersei walked away, Arya let of a loud sigh of relief and plopped down on the ground, which made Shireen giggle and do the same. Brienne looked at the figures walking away, and noticed that Cersei seemed to be passionately speaking to the King, gesturing and squeezing his arm.

“That was thankfully brief,” Arya observed. Brienne inwardly agreed, and sank herself down next to the two young women.

“Is it true what they say about Queen Cersei?”

“Arya!” Brienne gave her an admonishing look.

“What? It’s what all the papers are saying.” Arya had that sullen, stubborn look about her.

Shireen sighed and cast a troubled glance at the grass. “I’m aware of the rumours, yes, and while I don’t have the intimate ear of my father, I have observed the Dowager Queen being more present on my father’s arm. I suppose she wants to be my new mother.”

“I gather it’s difficult to think of a new addition to the family because it’s been just you and your father for so long,” Brienne offered.

Shireen looked at her and nodded. “It is, but it’s not just that. It’s just that-” Shireen looked around at her guards, who were well out of hearing. “It’s just that Queen Cersei doesn’t strike me as being very _kind_. Oh, she’s smiled at me has been nothing but polite, and she does charity work now, but I don’t get the sense that she likes me very much.”

Brienne, with the knowledge of Cersei’s private affairs and at her disastrous effect on her own life, stilled her tongue. It would do little good to sow discord, especially when Shireen seemed to already have reservations about the woman. Brienne knew, in addition, that the girl’s views on her possible stepmother would likely have little impact on the King.

“I never did like her, even when she was queen,” Arya said bluntly.

“Arya!” Brienne warned. “You really should refrain from speaking whatever is on your mind.”

Shireen giggled. “I’m glad I’m not the only one. But everyone else is in love with her because she’s so beautiful.”

“Have you spoken to your father about your feelings?” Brienne asked.

Shireen shook her head. “It’s quite futile.”

“What happens if they get married and she has a son? Will he become the next King?” Arya spoke again, with her characteristic bluntness.

Shireen shook her head. “That would be how it would normally work,” she said matter-of-factly, “But my father changed it so I would be the heir, regardless of any future children he may have.”

“That’s smart of him. He believes in you a great deal.” Brienne observed, smiling softly.

The princess nodded. “I’ve grown up with this expectation, and have been training to rule since I was little. I won’t shy from my duty.”

They parted with the Princess with warm embraces, with promises to greet each other at the end of the performance next week.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The woman in the painting looked powerful – her neck, shoulders, the vee of her chest bare, the paleness of her skin striking. The lines of her body were long, the column of her black gown dramatic, as one hand grasped the folds of her gown, and the other arm gracefully propped on a side table. She was not looking out of the painting, instead, her head was turned to the side, showing only her strong profile – her crooked nose, her firm jawline and her prominent cheekbones. She stared out into the distance, her eyes blue and intent, the elegant curve of her neck long and shapely. Her light blonde hair was swept into a chignon, the sides sleek. The impression was that of a passionate woman, tall and pale, with a strength that is strangely coiled beneath her skin. This woman did not care about the opinions of others, Brienne thought; rather, she _transcends_ common opinion.

“You captured her,” Brienne breathed, staring at the painting before them, turning her astonished eyes to Jon, who stood anxiously next to her.

“Her?”

“The Sapphire Soprano.”

“Really?” Jon smiled, his dark eyes amused. “Because I mostly saw you when I was painting it.”

Brienne shook her head. “No. This is the woman the audience sees when I’m on stage. I’m much plainer, duller than that.”

Jon shook his head. “There I respectfully disagree with you. While it may be true that the painting is dramatic in that way, there is not such a demarcation between the Sapphire Soprano and Brienne Tarth as you might think.”

She gave him a intrigued look, and was surprised to see such an earnest expression on his face.

“Hmmm. Well. I’ve always wanted to be more like her, so I suppose I can accept that?”

Jon laughed, shaking his head at her ridiculousness. “I believe the Opera House will be pleased with the painting, though I’m sure some of the board will think it scandalous.”

“Hmmm,” Brienne replied, non-commitally.

Jon gestured for her to follow him a few steps. He pulled out another painting from a shelf.

“Now _this_ is Brienne Tarth,” Jon said, placing the painting on an easel for display.

Brienne sucked in her breath. This _was_ all of her, a portrait of her face to her shoulders, looking directly out to the viewer. She was bare, and there was a suggestion that she was naked although when she posed she was very much covered from the chest down. The painting was naked in another sense – her face was immaculately portrayed in all its crookedness, freckles, plump lips, and strong jaw. The palette was delicate, washes of transparent pinks, beiges, whites, all except for her eyes, which dominated the painting. Their largeness, their shape, the striking blue of them, the light in the eyes, the thick, golden eyelashes that looked like spun gold.

“Jon….” Her breath seemed to have left her.

His eyes searched her face. “Do you like it?”

She nodded, blinking tears that suddenly came to her eyes. “I do. You’ve captured my face exactly. It’s just…I’ve never seen myself that way before.”

“In what way?”

“Almost…” She felt herself grow red at the realization. “Almost…beautiful.”

Jon chuckled, and he smiled warmly at her. “I only paint what I see. I don’t embellish.”

She felt unsteady and a surge of gratefulness filled her. She turned to Jon, and impulsively grasped both of his hands in hers.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

He smiled and brought both her hands up to his lips and kissed them. “I’m glad you approve, Brienne.”

She stared at the painting once again. A thought occurred to her.

“I’d like to buy the painting.”

“Ah.” Jon frowned. “It’s already been sold, unfortunately.”

Brienne felt a twist in her belly about another person, possibly a stranger, possessing a piece of her. She felt the painting had a bit of her soul in it, strangely enough.

To his credit, Jon looked a little guilty. “I mean, the buyer did suggest that I paint a portrait of you. The work was already sold before I even painted it.”

“Who did you sell it to? Perhaps I can buy it from them?”

“I believe the party would never sell it.”

“Who on earth did you sell it to, Jon?”

Jon shook his head. “I’m afraid I really can’t say, Brienne.” He gave her a pathetic and apologetic look.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The very same portrait hung on the red-papered walls of Jaime’s drawing room; it was the only thing the eye was drawn to.

Brienne was appalled. Indeed, she had taken a step back when she encountered her own face staring out at her, and she could feel her own visage flush a deep red.

“You’re the one who bought Jon’s painting?” Brienne looked at Jaime incredulously. The man had a wicked gleam in his eye that she did not like.

“Not only did I buy it, I commissioned it, wench. When I heard he was already doing a portrait of you for the King’s Landing Opera, I thought to commission my own portrait of you.” Jaime looked admiringly at the painting. “He’s quite good, isn’t he? It turned out better than even my wild imaginings.”

“Yes, it’s a lovely painting – but Jaime, why would you ever want a portrait of me?”

“Why wouldn’t I want a picture of the woman I love to adorn my walls? You’ll be inspiring me as I play the piano or compose my music.”

Brienne stiffened at the words of love. Of course, they had said it each other, but it was still a rare thing. To have him say it so casually was disconcerting at best.

She frowned. “But Jaime, everyone will see! All your visitors will be confronted by my big-”

“Sparkling blue eyes? I surely hope that was what you were going to say. I cannot abide anyone maligning my sweetling, least of all by the woman herself.” Jaime embraced her from the back, his arms around her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder as he looked up at the painting.

She relented, and melted in his arms, feeling herself leaning into Jaime.

“But Jaime, it’s embarrassing.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I disagree. But I could move the painting into the bedroom, so your eyes can always be with me…in bed.” His voice was low and suggestive and made her shiver.

“You’re incorrigible, Jaime,” she said, turning around so she was facing him.

“It will prevent me from missing you too much when you’re not here, wench,” he murmured starting to kiss her ear and neck.

“Oh, Jaime.” Brienne sighed happily, running her hands down his muscled back and magnificent backside. “You are a romantic, aren’t you?”

“Only with you, Brienne Tarth,” he said as he leaned to kiss her, his hands possessive on her hips.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The circus had outdone themselves – after a week of intense preparation in King’s Landing, the stage looked magical, adorned with gold and orange silk drapes, paper vines and flowers. Additional musicians had been hired to make the music permeate the whole of the sparkling pavilion and add to the grandeur of the event. There were seats to house over a hundred people, with a special, elevated balcony box for the Royal family. From back stage, Brienne could see King Stannis sitting between Cersei and Shireen, with guards standing behind them. The show was sold out, even at its very exclusive prices. The atmosphere in the air was of a chatty buzz and excitement prior to the show, as the public exclaimed at the sights and admired the lush surroundings. Tyrion and Jaime, along with Robb and Jon were in the front row, alongside other family and friends of the performers.

Brienne was the penultimate act, with The Mother of Dragons, Daenerys, closing the show with her fiery climax.

Oberyn entered the ring, dressed in resplendent gold Dornish robes, at first moving languidly in the spotlight, furling and unfurling his whip with bright snaps, then speaking to the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, distinguished royal guests,” Oberyn said, speaking into a new model carbon microphone which amplified his sultry voice, “Welcome to the Dornish Circus of Dreams’ tenth anniversary show. You are in for a very special night, with very special guests.”

He twirled and preened; his dark hair gleamed darkly under the spotlight. “You will be transported to a magical world and see sights you’ve never thought possible, that even your imagination has not conceived. You’ll experience acts that are perilous, jaw-dropping, gravity-defying. Prepare to laugh, to cry, to gasp in wonder, to defy disbelief. Welcome, my dear friends, to the circus of your own dreams.”

The final words of his speech echoed in the air as the lights went out, leaving the audience in the dark. The music swelled and burst around them, almost like a caress.

The performers had their little tricks especially for the night, and the backstage crew moved sets and platforms effortlessly, especially with the half-dozen extra hands that Sandor had hired just for the show.

Brienne could only glimpse bits of the acts, as she had to prepare for her own performance and spend time to settle her team of four horses. Other performers looked on from backstage, the rafters, or behind the crowd. Maester Qyburn, medical bag in hand, stalked around backstage, vigilant for any injury, even minor ones as he occasionally stopped to watch the performance.

Arya was spellbinding, displaying her accuracy with her thrown daggers with chilling and awe-inspiring precision. For her finale, she fastened leather straps to the very scantily clad and very muscular Gendry, securing him to the wheel of death, a bright red circular target board which rotated and was the centrepiece of her act. Even Brienne had to cover her eyes as she threw knife after knife at the spinning Gendry; she expected at any moment the thunk of dagger impaling flesh and bright sprays of blood, but Arya “Silver Claw” astonished them all.

“Gods, Arya, you were frightening,” Brienne said to the young woman and an amused-looking Gendry as they rushed off the stage after taking their bows. Arya simply smirked and wagged her eyebrows.

The transitions between acts were seamless, with black-clad crew members silently removing and adding props onto the sage, as the orchestra played jaunty or romantic or haunting tunes, depending on the mood of the next act. Ellaria and the Sand Snakes seemed to fly through the air in their aerial show, leaping from one metal bar to another, suspended high above. With their bright orange and yellow costumes, they looked like flames travelling through the air.

Quaithe, wearing a gold and red lacquer mask and black, robe-like gown, captivated the entire audience. She did not speak, and no music accompanied her act. How she turned bits of black ribbons in her hands into flying crows no one knew. How she made stars to appear within the dark tent with a wave of her arms, Brienne could not tell. How she made the air grow cold and a frosted tree grow out of the combed dirt floor was a complete mystery. As soon as it began, the act was over, and the audience murmured in awe, and seemed to be emerging from some strange dream.

When Brienne came into the ring as The Blue Angel, the audience cheered then seemed rapt in as the orchestral music rose and fell with the hooves of her horses. She felt as if she’d never left; she was at once the fifteen-year-old, war-surviving young girl who was utterly alone, and the confident eighteen-year-old who could charm the audience with just a song, and she was the twenty-three-year-old Sapphire Soprano, who defied the operatic stage and sang for her life, and she was Brienne Tarth, the woman who knew herself, knew her fears, and knew her worth.

The audience gasped at her circling the ring while standing stride two horses at great speed; they marvelled at her somersaults, splits, and tumbles on and off her horse. Most of all, they were transported by her songs of Tarth, sung while she stood on top of a horse. Working with at most two horses at time, Brienne felt her timing had never been better as one horse went off stage to rest as another galloped to her and she leapt to its saddle. A feeling of power and control ran through her, as everything that she had planned, and all that practice to return to the ring paid off. She sneaked a glance at Jaime, who smiled at her with complete awe. For her final song, Brienne sang her final aria of the opera she had been in, though she altered the melody to incorporate a Tarth love song. Her voice had never been so pliable and strong; she moved from the lower and upper register with minimal effort, the notes piercing the canvas tent and into the night.

As her song ended, she leapt onto Sugar for her final trick. She sped on her steed for a round, trying to get her to a good speed, and the ring before her was lit on fire. Yet Brienne felt something shift – her horse seemed restless; her seat on the saddle felt a little insecure. The ring ignited in wild green flames – at the sight of the green fire, she started, and so did her animal. There was something wrong. The fire shouldn’t have been green, and it blazed far too brightly.

Sugar faltered in her stride, appearing drowsed; the horse leant to the side, putting Brienne off balance. The beast snorted, roared and trumpeted, and Brienne tried desperately to hold on. The horse stumbled; Brienne felt herself falling. She heard someone scream her name. She grunted as she felt the ground beneath her, a sharp pain on her head and at her side. The horse was squealing, neighing. She looked up, saw the white of the horses eyes above of her as it reared up in confusion, its hooves in the air and about to come down on her head.

She saw a flash of gold, a hand held out, someone pulling her away. Jaime and Robb shouting. Screams ran though the tent, and Brienne suddenly smelled smoke. Her ears filled with thunder as people stamped for the exits. She looked up, and was alarmed to see the tent on fire, the awful green fire that she’d only seen during the hells of Tarth wars. Robb and Jon were around her and Jaime, pushing her up to her feet. The smoke was dense and unlike any she’d smelled before, and it quickly filled the tent, as the silk streamers, cloth curtains ignited, and the canvas of the tent was blaze. All Brienne saw were green flames, the brightness burning through her closed eyelids. She tried to make her feet move, but a dizziness washed over her and she felt herself slip into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portrait Jon Snow painted of Brienne as the Sapphire Soprano as I imagine it, is similar to [Portrait of Madame X](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_Madame_X#/media/File:Madame_X_\(Madame_Pierre_Gautreau\),_John_Singer_Sargent,_1884_\(unfree_frame_crop\).jpg) by John Singer Sargent (1884), which scandalized society back in the day.


	14. Fourteen: Deserved and Deserving

Brienne felt herself grasping in a darkness so black that seemed the texture of velvet as it surrounded her and enticed her to sleep. She knew this was no time to close her eyes and surrender to slumber. She remembered the green blaze, violent and pure in its heat; this fire did not give warmth or cook or nurture; it simply killed and extinguished life around it. The fire in her mind’s eye was mixed up with memories of her island burning – villages consumed by both green and orange flames, the sounds of women and children screaming. But now she was in a darkness so vast that in blanketed her whole body. Slowly, she made herself move her aching legs, her stiff torso, crawl into the blackness, and seemed she was moving an age but the darkness remained without end. Soon though, a pinprick of light, a blue slit grew and illuminated her way. She crawled toward it.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a blue ceiling above her, painted scenes of knights and maidens and dragons, the walls decorated with elaborate plaster ornament of flowers and leaves. She appeared to be in an immense bed. She felt awful, and she hurt all over. Her mouth was dry, her throat raw and painful, her chest tight. It hurt to breathe.

“Brienne,” a voice called out at her side. Jaime. He was sitting next to her, his expression anxious, though he rewarded her with a smile that lit up his eyes when she looked at him.

“Jaime? What happened?”

“Shhh,” he said, soothingly. “Don’t think about anything for now. Just rest.”

She glowered at him and sat up, her ribs protesting with sharp jabs and her head throbbing even more.

“Silly, stubborn woman-” he grumbled, reaching to help her sit up and wincing in pain as he touched her.

It was then that she noticed that Jaime’s right hand was splinted and bandaged.

“Jaime, what happened to your hand?”

Tyrion leaned over the bed and smiled at her. “He’s not going to answer you, so allow me to explain. But first, what do you remember?”

Brienne looked around and noticed a white haired man sitting near the door.

Tyrion followed her gaze. “That is Maester Cressen, King Stannis’ man.”

She looked around, understanding dawning. “King Stannis? Am I in the Red Keep?”

“Yes, wench.” Jaime reached out with his left hand and caressed her face. “I was so worried about you.”

“What do you remember, Miss Tarth?” Tyrion repeated.

She closed her eyes, willing a spell of dizziness to pass. “I was on my horse, getting ready to do my final trick, the jump through a hoop of fire.” The Maester walked over and passed her a cup of water. It was refreshing and cold. “But something went wrong. There was something wrong with the fire, it was green. There was something wrong with Sugar. I fell. Jaime, I saw you. Then I saw fire.”

“The horse unseated you, Miss Tarth. You hit your head and appeared to have severely bruised a couple of ribs. So it’s best that you rest as much as possible and allow your body to heal.” Maester Cressen said kindly.

“Jaime,” she turned to him, “Why were you there?”

Tyrion gave her a wry smile. “My fool of a brother who has no conception of self-preservation, ran after you and pulled you away, saving you from being trampled by your horse. Which did not prevent him from getting his fingers trampled on.”

“Gods, Jaime. Your hand.” Brienne was filled with guilt and concern.

Jaime shrugged. “It’s just a few broken bones.” Tyrion looked at his brother pointedly.

“You must rest now, Miss Tarth,” Maester Cressen interjected. “I’m concerned about your head injury.” He looked at the two brothers wryly. “She needs rest. I’m sure this conversation can be postponed until tomorrow?”

With a kind sort of persistence, the Maester ushered the Lannister brothers out of the room and left her alone in her immense bed with its blue painted ceiling in a very luxurious room in the Red Keep. Why was she at the Red Keep? Her mind wove with question upon question as slowly, the darkness again pulled her under.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

  
  


The next day, Brienne felt much better; her head no longer hurt and she was able to sit up without dizziness or nausea. Her ribs were still sore, but the pain was bearable. She hoisted herself to the edge of the bed, swinging her legs to the floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a faint movement.

“Wench! What on earth are you doing?” Jaime came running through the open door of the bedroom.

“I’m fine,” Brienne insisted, using her arms to help herself up. Jaime huffed at was at her side. He drew and arm around her waist to support her.

“I’m fine, Jaime.”

“I don’t want you to fall, wench.”

She glanced at his right hand, which was now covered by a plaster cast. “How is your hand, Jaime?”

He frowned. “Fine. It will just need time to heal. There’s no pain anymore.”

She turned to face him. “You saved me.” She squeezed his upper arm. “Thank you, Jaime.”

“Anything for my future bride.” He grinned.

She shook her head. “Just incorrigible,” she murmured. He looked like he wanted to kiss her.

He steadied her as she put on a dressing gown over her night shift and helped her walk out of the room. Brienne looked at him – she could see the strain on his face, haggard and full of worry; it was only when he turned to her that she saw his relief. The tried hard to smile at her.

They entered a drawing room, lit by tall windows framed by curtains of blue velvet. Brienne was surprised to see Ellaria lounging on a settee, Sandor hunched over a chess game with Arya, and Oberyn trailing his fingers over the spine of leather volumes at a desk.

“Is the whole circus here?” Brienne called out.

There were exclamations of joy as everyone save Sandor bounded toward her. The immense man gave her a wink and a small smile.

“Are you all right?” Arya asked, bouncing on her heels.

Ellaria kissed her on the cheek. So did Oberyn. Jaime cleared his throat in annoyance.

“You look well, darling.” Ellaria brushed her cheek lightly.

Oberyn and Jaime helped her to the divan nearest to her.

“I’m fine. My head feels all right. My ribs hurt, but I’m getting used to that already,” she said, looking around at them.

She looked around at their pleased, anxious faces. “Was any one hurt? There was a fire.”

Oberyn shook his head. “No, nothing serious, thank the gods.” He paused. “Though I’m sorry to say that Sugar didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” She furrowed her brow, thinking of her beloved horse. It was her fault that she was brought back from her retirement at the farm. She lowered her head for a moment but stared at each of them. “What exactly happened? No one’s told me anything. And why are we at the Red Keep?”

“Sabotage.” Arya said fiercely. “Sugar was poisoned off stage, just before he came on for your final stunt. The hoop was set aflame with wildfire instead of regular fire.”

Brienne stared at the young woman in disbelief.

“Another fire was set to the tent, which spread quickly. Luckily, we were able to get everyone out, with minor scrapes and bruises.” Oberyn paced the room, looking like an angry panther. “Of course, the fire was a diversion. In the panic, Princess Shireen was taken.”

Brienne gasped. Jaime took her hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

“The Princess. Where is she? Is she all right?”

“She’s safe here in the Red Keep. In fact, it was her highness who insisted we take refuge here for the interim.”

“What happened? Someone took her? How did she get away?”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “During the chaos of the fire, Cersei fainted, and King Stannis caught her and his attention was diverted. Meanwhile, Princess Shireen was stolen, as it turned out, by one of her guards, Osmond Kettleblack. At first it was assumed that he took her away to keep her from danger, but it seemed there was a plot in play.”

Brienne remembered the gruff man who lead her and Arya to the princess’ chambers just a week ago. There was nothing remarkable about the man that she could recall.

Ellaria “Oberyn and Sandor caught him tying up the chloroformed Princess in Maggy’s tent. Of course, it was Maggy, who was hidden in the tent, who sounded the alarm.”

Sandor scowled. “The piece of shit. He tried to scurry off when he saw us. Luckily Oberyn here used his whip to bind the fucker.”

“I was delighted to have practical use for my skills with the whip at long last,” Oberyn demurred. He turned to her, his face serious. “It was Qyburn who poisoned your horse, Brienne. And he replaced kerosene with wildfire.”

“Wildfire? I thought no one was making it any more since the Targaryen reign?” Brienne had visions of Tarth burning in green flames. She shivered at the memory.

“There was a stash of it hidden in the bowels of the Red Keep.” Jaime shook his head.

Brienne frowned. “Why would Qyburn do this? Hasn’t he been with you for weeks?”

“It turns out that he was assigned to the infiltrate the circus. To hurt you, Brienne. And to kidnap Shireen.”

“A two-fold plan.” She shook her head in disbelief.

Brienne’s head hurt from all the information. She was still stunned with the news that all this wasn’t an accident, that someone had deliberately planned to hurt her and the Princess. Who would do such a thing? Her head spun. She sighed. Her thoughts turned to the only person who’d ever threatened her and hurt her, and who would benefit from having Shireen disappear.

“Cersei,” she breathed. “It can’t be.”

“She’s always been too ambitious.” Jaime’s mouth was a displeased line.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

It did not take much for Osmond Kettleblack to confess in the plot to kidnap the princess, as the threat of execution significantly loosened his tongue, though he would be stuck in a cell for the rest of his days. He had been Cersei’s lover for years, he confessed, and she wanted the chance to be Queen again. It seemed to all that Stannis had been on the verge of announcing his betrothal to Cersei, and the woman wanted to secure the throne for herself and her future children instead of the crown going to Shireen after the King’s death. In the end, even when she was so close to her own goal, she became too impatient to wait for the king to make his move toward her. In the end, Cersei’s machinations got the better of her.

Initially, Qyburn denied everything, but he eventually confessed to poisoning Brienne’s horse and changing the fuel for the metal ring, upon Cersei’s orders. He did as he was told and claimed that he had no choice in the matter, as he was under threat of death. He insisted that someone else set the tent on fire and he was unaware of the plot to kidnap the princess. He was stripped of his chains and medical license, and agreed to a limited prison term after agreeing to confess to avoid execution.

“It’s typical of Cersei to be so overreaching,” Tyrion idly remarked, as they walked together in the garden of the Red Keep. “She was never happy with what she had. Even when she was Queen, she was greedy – nothing was ever enough.”

“Yet it seemed she was trying to change in recent months,” Brienne mused, remembering the newspaper accounts about her charity works.

Tyrion laughed. “She was trying very hard to _seem_ a virtuous, moral woman for King Stannis, I’ll give her that. From what I heard, she was very close to snaring the King in her clutches. But she’s always been petty and this nonsensical hatred she has of you provided her with the opportunity secure her crown for herself and her heirs, and take you away from Jaime.”

“Surely she wasn’t planning to get rid of Shireen?”

“Who knows what’s going on in that pretty head of hers? Maybe she wanted to comfort Stannis and bind him more to her. Maybe she intended the princess to disappear forever. Maybe she was just too impatient to wait until she was actually married to the King and pregnant. Maybe she even had a plan to assassinate the King.”

“Gods.”

“She really did want to kill you, you know.” He gave her a side-long glance.

“I haven’t done anything to her, and I’ve only been back for a few months!”

“My cousin hates to lose. Jaime has been saying no to Cersei’s summons for years, all because of you. And the fact that you still held Jaime’s affection after a five-year absence must have rankled. Not to mention that you returned in all your glory, the darling of the stage, as the Sapphire Soprano? Impossible. How could she endure it? Your very existence was an affront to her.”

They stopped short as they rounded the corner and saw a large black carriage at the entrance of the Keep.

“Now, what do we have here,” Tyrion murmured as he walked toward the Keep. Brienne followed.

A handful of uniformed guards came out, followed by a slim female figure in black. Brienne gasped. It was Cersei, her face bloodless and white, her mouth pinched and jaw tight. Her eyes burned green with rage, reminding Brienne too much of wildfire. She looked dignified, her spine straight; she wore a black gown with an elaborate bustle. Rubies were at her throat. Her beauty was even enhanced by the marks of suffering in her face; the dark shadows under her eyes made the green of her eyes even brighter.

She looked ahead and held her head high as she descended the steps toward the carriage. Tyrion jauntily waved. Cersei caught the movement and turned her head. She glared at Tyrion, then moved her gaze up to Brienne. The look of malice and hate that Brienne saw in her eyes startled her, and almost made Brienne step back. She had never seen such hostility in a person’s eyes before, and to have that hateful gaze directed at her shocked her to the core.

“Ah, I thought I was the one she hated most. It seems the honour goes to you, Miss Tarth.”

Cersei glowered and silently got into the carriage, followed by her guards.

“Where are they taking her?”

“To a castle far, far away. Quite literally.” Tyrion grinned. “She’s to be confined for the rest of her days, guarded and stored away. Her titles have been stripped, her lands confiscated. Yet she will still live in comfort. A concession to a former Queen, treasonous though she may be.”

“Shouldn’t she have some sort of trial, face criminal justice?”

Tyrion shrugged. “She was given a choice – to be arrested and tried in a court of law, where she would likely be executed, or live out the rest of her life in relative comfort in a remote country estate. She chose the latter. Of course, the King approves as it keeps Princess Shireen’s kidnapping attempt and your attempted murder out of the papers. You don’t want to give the lunatics out there any ideas, you see.”

“Gods, I don’t understand.” Brienne shook her head “Cersei had everything. Why would she risk it all?”

Tyrion looked at her, his mismatched eyes contemplative. “She was always unhappy. And greedy. Possessive. There was a hole inside her that no amount of riches, lovers, or titles could ever fill.” He shook his head. “I’m just glad that Jaime is free of her. I can only imagine that Jaime would have been embroiled in all of this madness had he remained devoted to her. I have you to thank for that, I believe.”

“Do you think Jaime really would have helped Cersei had they remained together?”

“Don’t you? He would have been the first to admit it.”

She shook her head. “No. I believe Jaime is a better man than that. He would never hurt an innocent.”

Tyrion tilted his head and looked at her with admiration. “Ah. I understand it now. Why he loves you.” He took her hand gingerly, and softly kissed it. “Bless you, Brienne Tarth.”

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The public had a field day with the fire, yet it also had its pound of flesh, with the blame for the disaster going solely to Kettleblack and Qyburn; Cersei’s name was kept out of the papers, and there was no mention of her at all in connection to the King or a possible betrothal. The papers simply stopped all mention of the former queen, and the public stopped thinking of her quickly, as they had other news to occupy them. The Dornish Circus of Dreams garnered much sympathy, especially considering their main tent was entirely destroyed. Oberyn gave a scintillating interview about the fate of the circus, and his fine figure gracing the front pages did much to excite readers. The spectators that night, aside from few scrapes and a bit of terror, left with a memorable and exciting anecdote they would treasure for the rest of their lives, and trot out at every public house gathering and dinner party.

Oberyn and Ellaria were determined to rebuild the grand tent, and remake the circus for next season to make it even better than ever. However, their difficulties were very much eased by the generous compensation the crown provided the troupe for their losses and for their actions in foiling the kidnapping of the princess. Since then, the circus packed their wares and returned to Dorne by train. A part of Brienne wanted to go with them, as they were the closest things to family that Brienne had ever had, but she knew she had to stay and live her own life.

It was almost subtle, the way Jaime retreated from her days after the accident. In the few days after the fire, he was devotedly by her side, giving her concerned looks and hovering like a shadow whenever Brienne ventured out of her room. His visits became infrequent as the weeks passed, yet he was as sweet as ever when he appeared. But Brienne herself was preoccupied; her days were spent with Oberyn and Ellaria and Arya, and helping with the circus, cleaning up the burnt embers of the tent and its contents. She mourned her horse Sugar. She was exhausted and her body still ached, though the pain lessoned greatly as time passed.

Tyrion accompanied her to the station when the circus left.

“How is Jaime?” Brienne asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “He hasn’t visited in a couple of weeks.”

“Ah.” The small man looked across at her in the carriage. “I believe you must see for yourself, Miss Tarth.” He signalled to the driver and said a few words. Soon enough, she recognized the tree-lined streets, the increasing green of their surroundings, as the streets became narrower and less crowded.

They stopped in front of Jaime’s building. “Here we are,” Tyrion announced. He paused. “Miss Tarth, you will allow him some leeway, I hope. He hasn’t been himself.”

Brienne stared at him, not comprehending. She felt a stab of guilt – she had been so busy and harried with helping clean up the aftermath of the circus fire that she had not even thought about seeking Jaime out. He had always the one coming to her, especially since he returned to the city. She felt herself a poor friend, and an even poorer lover, and she was ashamed.

Tyrion knocked on the door and waited. Brienne stood to the side, her stomach rumbling with inexplicable nerves. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Finally, he banged on the door, loud enough to wake the dead.

“Why is no one answering? Where is his man?” Brienne asked, incredulous.

He gave her a pained look and reached in his pocket to reveal a key.

“Luckily, he gave me a copy of the key when he moved in here. I’m sure he’d forgotten about it, but it will serve its purpose at least.”

The lock turned, and they opened the door to find the whole apartment dark, the curtains drawn, although it was already midday. Brienne fumbled a bit drew aside the curtains to let the light in; the air was tinged with dust, illuminated by the sunshine streaming through the windows. It was apparent that Jaime had not had help for some time, judging from the dirty plates and glasses, the empty wine bottles, and clothes strewn everywhere in his drawing room.

“Jaime?” Tyrion called out, his feet kicking some dirty clothes on the floor away with apparent disgust.

His piano was strewn with papers, which also littered the floor around him.

“For heaven’s sake,” Tyrion muttered, as he led Brienne to the bedroom. The door was open and dark. There was a covered form in the bed, and she wrinkled her nose at the sour stink in the air.

“Gods,” Tyrion muttered, marching up to the sleeping form as Brienne threw open the curtains and the windows.

“Jaime.” Tyrion said loudly, pulling down the covers and revealing the disheveled head of Jaime, a scruffy beard covering his face.

Jaime groaned and stirred.

“Brother,” Tyrion called even louder, pulling the blankets down to reveal Jaime’s golden, beautiful chest. Even unwashed, he still looked half a god, Brienne thought.

“Leave me alone, Tyrion,” Jaime groaned, his eyes scrunching against the new light that was assaulting his eyelids.

“Brienne is here.” The small man jerked the blanket further down.

Jaime suddenly opened his eyes, as if a switch had turned on, and sat bolt upright, his eyes wide in panic.

“No.” He widened his eyes as he saw her, silhouetted against the window.

“Why have you brought her here, Tyrion? I’m not fit.”

Brienne took some steps closer to him, until she was standing next to him on the bed. He looked at her with bewildered eyes.

“Jaime, what happened to you?” She reached a hand out to him, then stopped.

He moved and clutched her hand. His grip was firm and warm and the desperation of it jostled her insides. His injured arm, now out of its cast, lay in his lap.

“Brienne. Are you alright?” He lifted her hand to his forehead, a tender gesture that made her want to weep.

“Why is the place in such a state? Why are _you_ in such a state? What happened to your manservant, Jaime?”

He narrowed his eyes and let go of her hand. He turned to his brother and spoke bitterly. “Oh him? I found out that he was passing along information to Cersei these past weeks. Reported to her my comings and goings. My visitors.” He glanced briefly at Brienne and lowered his eyes.

“I see,” Tyrion said, his voice amused. “So you’ve just stopped bathing and taking care of yourself? How logical.”

Jaime gave him a searing glare. “That’s my business what I do with my life.”

“I’m simply trying to understand-”

“Will you go?” Jaime said through gritted teeth. “I don’t have the patience for you right now, Tyrion.”

“Brother-”

“Don’t you have some government business to do? Smooth out political feathers with the King so he won’t punish you for our cousin’s treason?”

Tyrion’s face grew hard. “Very well.” He turned to Brienne. “Come, Miss Tarth. I shall drive you home.”

She stared at the brothers. “No, I think I’ll stay.”

Jaime turned to her, almost ferocious, his teeth bared. “You, of all people, must go.”

“No.” She glared back at him.

He pouted. “Brienne, please. I don’t want you to see me like his.” His voice was almost pleading.

“It’s a little too late for that, Jaime.”

Tyrion looked at her, his face a question. She nodded. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips. He gestured for her to follow him out of the bedroom.

“Are you sure you can handle him? He can be a bear when he’s out of sorts.”

She nodded. “I’m sure.”

“You’re a good woman,” he said. “Meanwhile, I shall try to send over a manservant and housekeeper – one that will be discreet.” He reached into a pocket and handed her the apartment key. “In case he locks you out,” he said sardonically.

She placed it in her jacket pocket.

“I don’t have to remind you to use the back entrance when you go.” He smiled at her. “The last thing we want is a Lannister scandal or your reputation ruined.”

Brienne laughed softly. “I’m an opera singer. I’m sure everyone already thinks I’ve been ruined ten times over. The stage corrupts, as you know.”

Tyrion smiled and nodded his head. “Take care of him. Send for me if you need help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wishing my neighbours in the south the best of luck. May democracy and justice prevail. Take care of yourselves during this tense time. 💗


	15. Fifteen: Fresh Air

“I’ve run you a bath.” She looked at his sulking form sitting on the bed. He had not spoken since his brother left, and regarded her with weary eyes as he followed her movements.

“You truly do not need to be here, Brienne.” His hands fisted the sheets that covered his hips.

“I truly do. You’re as helpless as a newborn babe.”

He scoffed.

She looked at him, concern writ large in her expression. “I’ve never seen you like this, Jaime. What happened?”

He sighed, avoiding her eyes, and eased himself out of bed, slipping on a dressing gown, but not before Brienne could see how much thinner he’d gotten in the past two weeks. He did not speak, but turned away, avoiding her gaze. The air of unrest grew in the room between them.

“I think I will take that bath, wench,” he said, as he walked past her into the bathroom.

She heard splashing through the closed door as she tidied up the place as best she could, hoping that Tyrion would send for help right away. Meanwhile, she changed his bedsheets, wrinkling her nose at faint yellowed stains. She looked in the kitchen – he had no food in the residence, only coffee, tea and wine.

It was evident that the apartment had not been cleaned for some time. The clutter, the used glasses, the piles of clothes made the large apartment seem oppressive. Light or fresh air had not touched the place in ages. Brienne opened all the curtains and windows wide, breathing in the relatively fresh air of the city; she was grateful for the view of the park across the way, the sight of the green trees, the manicured grass, the shaped hedges. She picked up the papers strewn around the floor of piano; she paused as she looked at them, and she felt almost physically jolted from Jaime’s notations, hurried, sloppy, with ink blearing many of the pages.

“So you’ve found out my secret,” Jaime said, his voice soft and calm. Brienne hitched her breath at the sight of him. He appeared wearing nothing but his dark blue dressing gown, which revealed a tantalizing section of his golden chest. His wet hair hung loose around his ears and his forehead; he had shaven, but this only highlighted the sharp angles and hollows of his cheekbones. She had almost forgotten how beautiful he was, but still, at odd moments, it struck her how fine of a job the gods had done when they crafted the face and form of Jaime Lannister.

She moved her eyes away and stared at the pages in her hands, trying to make them out. “New music?”

He came and stood beside her, his proximity giving off a familiar heat that prickled at her skin. He smelled like spicy soap. “I’ve been writing an opera.”

She turned to him, surprised. “Really?”

“I want you to star in it, Brienne. As the lead.”

Heat flooded her cheeks. She stared helplessly at the scrawled notes on the pages. She looked at him carefully, and only read sincerity back. “Jaime, I don’t know what to say. It’s too much. How could you want me to star in it?”

His mouth quirked up, making her recall his familiar insouciance. “Why wouldn’t I want the best voice in opera to star in it? Surely you jest.”

She stared at him, his eyes intently looking back, examining her face. There was a seriousness in his expression that made her heart pound.

“Jaime, I-”

He sighed. “I would play some of the music for you now, but-” He stopped and lifted up his right hand, letting it catch the light. The skin had pink scars marking it, like fine rope, and there was stiffness in the way he held up his fingers. His mouth was tight, and expression all at once fell, and his eyes clouded with sorrow.

“Your hand.”

He looked at her with a sort of resigned sadness. “The bones have healed – and well, I don’t even mind the scars, but the fingers won’t do what I tell them.” He moved his fingers slowly and stiffly. “They ache. They are slow to react.”

“Oh, Jaime.” She remembered all at once the beauty of his piano playing, how his fingers would fly like hummingbirds over the keys, creating impossible trills and runs. She could not imagine how he must be feeling, to have damaged the fine instruments of his hands. It would be like Brienne losing her voice – she could not dare think of it. Yet here it was, a monumental thing that happened to Jaime.

“I’ve always taken them for granted, I suppose, that my fingers can even outrun my thoughts. That they are a direct conduit to the music I see in front of me, the melodies I hear in my soul. I never had to think about playing the piano. Music just emerged from my fingertips.”

Jaime reached out his right hand and lightly caressed the black and white keys of the piano; his touch was tentative, almost fearful. “Gods, I’d never thought my career as a pianist would be over. Playing was like breathing to me.”

His gaze was so forlorn that Brienne reached out to grab the hand that had so offended him. She held it in her own hands, lightly tracing the scars, feeling the heat of them. His hand was warm though there was something unnatural in the way he held them. Jaime looked down, seemingly transfixed at her caresses.

“You’re still healing.” She started to lightly massage his hand, pressing on the muscle of his thumbs, palms, squeezing and rubbing each of his fingers. She felt the warmth of her hands pass into his, as his muscles slowly loosened under her ministrations. He continued to look at her working with his hand, his breaths becoming shallow.

“Jaime, you’re still brilliant. You create music that has moved me to tears. Yes, perhaps your fingers won’t work as well as they once did. Perhaps you won’t be that virtuoso pianist any more, but you can still make music. Music will always be inside you.”

He looked up at her now, his face so open and vulnerable that her heart ached. He shuffled closer to her and she reacted, enfolding him in her arms. He exhaled deeply, his body relaxing into her, swaying a little, and she felt her own body relax in response. She stroked his hair, his shoulders, his back. She felt there was no place better than this moment, when he surrendered to her arms. How could she help but adore him, when he was grateful for every touch and caress, as if these signs of affection were gifts that surprised him whenever they were offered.

“I’m so tired,” he murmured into her neck. Brienne had never seen him so despondent; there was always a determination about Jaime, but this aimlessness in him made her want to reach out more. She seemed to have forgotten about her own defensiveness, her own insecurity about love. There was Jaime in front of her, and he needed her. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to go to him and help him.

She led him back to the bedroom and helped him back to bed.

“You shouldn’t have changed the sheets,” Jaime said, shaking his head.

“I had time.” She sat at the edge of the bed, stroking his face. The bones of his cheek had become more prominent since she last saw him, making him look even more poetic and regal. She recalled his empty pantry. “You have no food in this house, Jaime. I’m going to go out and get some. You need to eat.”

But before she could get up, Jaime pulled her back down, and scooted over to the middle of the bed, tugging at her hand. “Later, Brienne. Would you lay down beside me for a while?”

She bit her lip and acquiesced, sliding in bed beside him. She turned to him, and he reached out and traced her cheek with his right hand. Before Jaime, she would have wondered how a man could bear looking so closely at her face; before him, she would have never believed that such a man – so handsome, good, and gifted – could ever want her. Could ever love her. But he did. And she believed him. It seemed to her a miracle.

He kissed her softly, his lips barely touching hers. She placed all the longing that she’d ever felt in the kiss that she gave him back. He groaned softly into her mouth. His skin was warm, and smooth under her hands. He pulled her close. She felt his growing hardness at her hip, radiating warmth into her skin. She started to sit up, and Jaime made a noise of protest, trying to pull her back down. But she sat up. He regarded her with a leonine look, full of heat and wanting. Brienne was filled to the tips of her toes with an electric yearning, a desire to spark, a desire to make Jaime fall apart under her hands. She untied his dressing gown and pulled it off with his help, leaving him sprawled, naked and golden on the bed. His eyes were bright and fervent upon her, the heat of his gaze warming and pinking her skin.

She wanted to possess him and give him something at the same time.

“I’m going to touch you, Jaime, and you’re not going to do anything about it,” she said firmly.

His eyes went dark and wild, and his mouth went slack. He nodded, swallowing.

She began with touching his neck and shoulders, her palms pressing against the muscle of his chest, his upper arms.

“And then you’ll sleep and eat and take care of yourself. You’re going to make music again, and exercise your hands.”

He whimpered in response as her fingers circled his nipples and pinched them. She touched his stomach now, the muscles of his abdomen, the slight rise of ribs that showed his recent weight loss, the indentation of hip on either side of his body, the slim bones of his hips, the thickness of his firm thighs, the sculpture of his lower legs, the strong jut of his calves. His cock was hard and sticking up, the tip of it a most delectable pink. Brienne combed her fingers through the golden nest of hair around his manhood, her hands gently cupping his bollocks and eliciting an agonizing groan from Jaime.

“Wench, you’re killing me.” His eyes followed the movement of her hands, and looked up at her face. His cock lurched on its own as her fingers drew closer. She could see drops of moisture at the slit of his cock.

Jaime let out a loud moan when her hand finally enclosed his shaft. She marvelled at the velvety softness of his skin which contradicted the hardness of him. This was another miracle, the shameless way in which he responded to her caresses; his moans and gasps in turn made her feel wanton and wild. Whatever she was doing to him, she wanted more. She rubbed her thumb at the tip of him, spreading his slippery essence dripping around the head of his cock and his shaft. Her strokes became slippery, more luxurious, as his cock slid easier in her fist. With her right hand, she pumped him up and down, as her left hand explored his balls, the delicate skin behind them. He groaned as she pressed the sensitive area behind his scrotum. He gasped loudly as her finger pressed against the opening of his ass. She had heard from Oberyn how much pleasure this could bring a man, though she had no oils to use on him. She experimentally placed a finger inside, and Jaime bucked his hips, letting out a surprised shout of pleasure. He gave her a look that was full of both lust and disbelief. He whimpered.

In her grip, his cock swelled and got even harder, the tip grown a deep pink. She stroked him faster as he squirmed, as his thighs contracted. Brienne felt a growing warmth in her core as he reacted to her touch.

“Gods, I need – I need – oh, fuck,” he said desperately.

His breaths shallowed and stuttered and he bucked desperately into her fist as her finger wriggled in his ass; his moans grew, he became breathless. Brienne, determined and wild, stroked him faster. His hips bucked; he gave a shout. She held her breath. His cock swelled and erupted in her hands, as his hips lurched up and pulses of his copious seed splashed up onto his belly and flowed down her fingers.

His eyes were closed, his breaths hard. He moaned as she withdrew her finger, and he lay there, senseless. She quickly moved to the bathroom and retrieved a warm, wet cloth. She slowly cleaned off her fingers and the pearlescent streaks of his semen on his skin.

He opened his eyes, his face utterly relaxed. His look was frank astonishment. He pulled her face down and kissed her.

“I love you,” he said simply, his expression innocent and guileless. Her heart contracted.

“Sleep,” Brienne said, ignoring the heat between her legs.

He closed his eyes, and quickly fell asleep.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

Tyrion returned with staff that could be trusted: Peck and Pia. The couple had recently moved back to King’s Landing and was in Tyrion’s employ as secretary and housekeeper in his own household. They were happy to assist Jaime again, at least for this temporary period. To Brienne, seeing Peck again was like seeing an old friend, and Pia seemed like the sweetest sort of woman, who appeared to be completely at home in the kitchen. They took matters in hand, cleaning the place, cooking, and putting things in order. In a few hours, the place smelled of warm, baked bread. At the end of the day, the couple returned to their home, planning to return tomorrow.

Jaime slept and was persuaded to eat. He still seemed to be troubled, and he gave Brienne long, forlorn stares when he thought she wasn’t looking. He was uncharacteristically silent, though the expression in his eyes when she looked at him made her quiver. She felt a tenderness toward Jaime, like a blossoming, wild flower that she did not know the name of; she wanted to comfort him, kiss him, and shake him, all at once.

In the evening she massaged his hand with almond oil mixed in with a few drops of lavender that she had purchased earlier in the day. She urged him to perform hand exercises to increase their movement. His fingers were stiff and slow, and she noticed the tight set of his jaw and his steely gaze as he stared at his cursed hand. He was brooding.

“You know I’m never going to regain the full use of my hand, wench,” he grumbled, wincing at the ache of his fingers, staring sullenly at her movements of her hands on his.

She looked at him evenly. “Maybe not, but you can surely improve it. You are barely using the hand as is; it’s as if you’re afraid of moving it.”

He stayed silent, but stared at her with a morose expression and a twist of his mouth.

He sat on the divan, staring out the window. There was a chill between them that Brienne could not seem to breach.

“You should go back to your hotel, Brienne.” Jaime’s voice was cold and impersonal.

“Should I?” She said lightly. “And should I come back tomorrow?”

He looked down. “I don’t see why you should. Peck and Pia are here now.”

“I see.” She looked at him, his profile striking. He was determined not to look at her, it seemed.

“And I suppose I should just go back to my normal life and never come back to visit you?”

“That’s right.” She could see the tightness in his jaw, the vein in his forehead pulsing.

“I suppose I’ll go back to Dorne, since I can’t find any operatic work here.”

He turned swiftly to her now. His face flashed hurt and sadness for a moment, then dulled to a neutral expression. Ah, he was trying to pull away from her. In another time, she would have let him and run away herself. But she knew Jaime – he was pushing her away for some twisted, noble reason.

“I suppose you don’t really love me, then.” She urged her voice to be even. Her heart felt like it was starting to ache dully. She had run away too many times; she would not allow him to send her away.

He glared at her. “How can you say that? Of course I love you. I’ll always love you.”

She lunged toward him, all at once angry and desperate. She held his face in her hands and looked into his eyes.

“Then why are you breaking my heart? You said you wanted to try being with me. What happened?”

He started, and looked down for a moment. When his eyes met hers again she saw that they were glistening with unshed tears.

“Brienne. My former lover tried to kill you. Five years ago, she kicked you out of the music conservatory and tried to ruin your career. It’s my fault that you were almost killed out there in the ring. I’ve come to the realization that I’ve only hurt you and don’t deserve you.”

“Jaime-”

“I’m no good for you, Brienne. You shouldn’t even be around me. I was foolish to think that we could be together. You should find someone who isn’t cursed.” He reached up to her wrists and pulled her hands down from his face. His eyes were unutterably sad.

This would not do. She would not allow him to draw away and hide. She straddled him, drawing her knees on either side of his hip. He exhaled sharply. She drew her face close to his, inhaling his soapy, spicy smell and touched her forehead to his. Their breaths melded and grew warm.

“Jaime. You seemed to have forgotten that you jumped into the circus ring, facing an out-of-control, bucking horse and pulled me from danger, injuring your hand in the process.” As she spoke, her lips grazed his. He trembled under her gaze. “You saved my life, you silly, wonderful man.”

She kissed him softly.

“But it’s all my fault,” he said stubbornly.

“It certainly is not. You didn’t poison Sugar. You didn’t replace kerosene with wildfire. You didn’t even order those things. All you are guilty of was loving a woman who didn’t deserve a speck of your love.”

She kissed him longer, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. His mouth opened under hers and she felt his hands roam her back and cup her ass.

“I trust you, Jaime. I love you.”

He relaxed under her arms.

Jaime pulled her closer, so the core of her rubbed against the hard ridge of him. He exhaled, his whole body relaxing. He kissed her breasts through her light blue muslin dress. He squeezed her almost too tightly. “Gods. I love you, Brienne. So much.”

She unlaced the front of her dress and unhooked the top of her light stays, allowing his mouth access to her breast. His lips fastened on her pebbled nipple, and she keened as his touch swirled around it. She felt moisture pool at the juncture of her thighs. It was always like this with Jaime, how he made her an electrified, wanton fool, filled with desire.

She reached down and freed his cock from his trousers, and she parted the gap in her drawers. He gasped and looked at her desperately, as the head of his cock nudged at the wet opening of her cunt. He had barely touched her and she was already dripping for him, aching to be united with him. They both moaned as she sunk herself down on his hard member. She relished in the complete way that Jaime filled her and moaned loudly.

“You’re perfect,” Jaime gasped, bucking up at her, his hands grasping her hip as she moved up and down. They moved as if one being, meeting and thrusting and rubbing, their breaths mingling, their moans joining, as they moved into each other faster and harder, until she did not know when her body ended and his began. Rapture rolled into her body and out though his, wave after wave. She came with an explosive cry and gush of moisture, and her pleasure seemed to pass to Jaime, as he immediately thrust hard, burying himself deep inside her as he spurted violently inside her warmth.

They stilled, chest pressed against chest. Their hearts were beating fast and Brienne could not distinguish her heartbeat from Jaime’s. She tried to climb off him, but he held her hips still. He kissed her, his mouth sweet and warm.

He sighed happily.

His green eyes were wet and shone with a rapturous light.

“Marry me,” she said, pressing her mouth onto his cheek. She was surprised at her own words.

His mouth opened in shock, and he immediately grinned. “Yes,” he said simply.

He then startled her by bracing her hips against his and carrying her all the way to the bedroom to his bed. She gave an astonished cry. He was still inside her, never having gone soft; in fact, it seemed that her unexpected proposal of marriage had hardened his spent cock significantly and he was subtly pulsing and growing inside her. He gave her a wicked grin as he loomed over her and started thrusting once again, fucking her hard. She gasped. She met his hips with sharp thrusts of her own, and drew her long legs around him, pushing him even deeper inside. Her fingers reached down to where they joined, circling her nub. He looked at her as if she was the moon come down to earth, such love she read in his eyes. Soon enough, a surge of bliss that began in her cunt washed over her, causing her to shudder as bolts of pleasure shocked her. Jaime gave a rough cry as he stuttered the movement of his hips, spending his seed once again inside her.

He collapsed on top of her, exhausted and breathing hard.

“Oh gods,” he moaned into her neck. She ran her fingers in his hair, enjoying the weight of him on top of her.

He slowly peeled himself off and ran to the bathroom with shaky legs, returning with warm, wet cloths. Brienne took of her drawers and looked on with amusement as she observed the copious amount of spend that oozed from her opening. He kissed her sex, tasting his seed on her, and wiped her gently until she was clean.

She laughed. “Gods, we’re not even undressed,” she said, noticing the rumpled state of their clothes.

He beamed and laughed. He undressed quickly and helped her with her own more complicated gown and stays and drawers. They lay together completely naked. There was nothing to hide between them now. There was no fear that they could not get over together. Brienne felt a sense of rightness about being with Jaime, and she knew he felt the same way from the way he looked adoringly at her.

They lay together, their legs and arms entwined, her breaths joining with every inhale and exhale. They slept the blissful sleep of the sweetly fucked and those in love.


	16. Sixteen: Past Present

Brienne knelt before the proud and handsome knight, her eyes locked on his as they sang the vows of knighthood. Her voice echoed his, the notes shadowing and lifting over his, their voices encircling and flying higher and higher. Robb’s eyes grew damp and shiny, and Brienne could not help the tears running down her own face. There was no higher honour than to be knighted by the man she loved and respected.

The orchestra had stilled, leaving the purity of their voices to hang in the air and take wing. The tenor and the falcon soprano now stood together, hands grasping in unity as their voices harmonized and sweetly filled the whole theatre. Their final notes reverberated in the air and hung there as if suspended. Then, there was silence and the feeling of the earth quaking as thunderous applause filled their ears.

The cheers grew even louder as Jaime Lannister, the creator of the opera _Ice and Fire_ , stepped to take his bow. He looked otherworldly handsome in his long evening jacket and carelessly tied cravat. His hair had grown yet longer, grazing at his shoulders, giving him a rakish, poetic air. Yet when he walked on the stage he only had eyes for Brienne, giving her a long, very public kiss and eliciting whoops and delighted gasps in the process. Brienne burned pink, the blush seemingly spreading down to her toes.

He had finished the opera, a tale of a young, determined woman who runs off to fight for the honour of her island home and to get revenge on invading armies. In the process, she rescues a cad, who turned out to be a prince of the realm. Improbably, they fall in love. Brienne was astonished when she read the story; she had never imagined that she would ever be the star of any opera, let alone that an opera would be written just for her. She was used to supporting roles, villainous roles that fit her ugliness and large size, but to be the heroine was a thing she never even dared to wish for, not to mention the happy ending.

Brienne was even more astounded when she first heard the music, played with careful slowness by Jaime’s ailing fingers. She wept; he had incorporated Tarth folk songs, the melodies of the love songs that women sang in the fields as the sun set into the music. Her mother’s lullabies. She felt at once the ache of home, the sharp pain of loss, and the love that emerged from the music. If there were any doubts as to Jaime’s love for her, they were obliterated with the melodies of her dreams that he made come to life. Her songs – Tarth’s songs – would be remembered long after she and he passed from the world.

The public kiss after the debut performance of the opera was no scandal; after all, they had married weeks before, in Dorne, surrounded by Brienne’s circus family, Tyrion and even Tywin, Jaime’s father, who was more than pleased that his son would begin the creation of heirs in earnest. Of Cersei, very little could be said; she was in her genteel and luxurious prison far, far away, but lacked the power and money to move minds to help her escape. King Stannis apparently received monthly reports about her not-so-exciting activities, and his efficient secretary Davos filed each report away in his meticulously organized cabinets.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

“I never knew love could be so easy,” Jaime said to her, as they settled into bed. “Love was always a grasping, trying to hold on, trying to push to hurt and prod. For many years, I equated love with misery.”

Brienne cupped his cheek with her hands. “Oh Jaime,” she said, sighing, and wriggling her body closer to his.

“But when I met you, I felt lighter, like I could breathe for the first time in my life.” He kissed her softly, his green eyes glistening with emotion. “When I you first kissed me, my heart felt like it was beating again, after years of being stilled and restrained. I wanted you so much.”

“I’m sorry for running away. We could have had all those years together.” Guilt still tugged at her, although it was faint, its power diminished in the light of Jaime.

He shook his head. “We needed time to figure things out by ourselves. You proved yourself to be the strongest person I’ve ever known. When I saw you again in that dressing room, I knew we were meant to be together.”

“Everything did feel right,” she murmured, remembering how they converged upon each other without a rational thought, the way their bodies and lips found each other almost instinctively.

His right hand stroked her thin hair, ever so gently. “With you, I finally knew what love was, and what it could be. You made this,” he waved his scarred hand, “Not matter. You convinced me that I could still make music. You made me want to write the most beautiful melodies, just for you.”

Her cheeks flushed warmly at his words. She drew a leg across his hip. He caressed her thigh.

“And because of you, Jaime, you taught me that I was worthy of love, that I can stay in one place and believe that I could be loved. That you wouldn’t just disappear one day.” She nuzzled her face into his neck.

“I would never leave you, wench.” The kiss he gave her was warm and filled with longing. “Brienne of Tarth. The Blue Angel. The Sapphire Soprano.”

And then there were no need for words, when their kisses spoke for themselves. Their touches lit little fires inside them. He took her sweetly, his cock hard and insistent as she enveloped her soft warmth around him.

<<<~=~=O=~=~>>>

The gravestones were made of white Tarth marble, on which the individual names of Brienne’s family were carved. The bright stones were lined up together, all five of them. Brienne had commissioned the tombstones upon their visit to Tarth. Seeing them lined in a row made her heart throb. The losses seemed unimaginable, and she had not allowed herself to dwell on the death of her entire family nearly nine years prior. After all, she had to survive. She had never looked back until now.

She returned to a Tarth that had rebuilt itself, though the people were all strangers to her now. She still had the deed to Evenfall, and she shivered as she returned to her old home, long thought abandoned. She thought that she wouldn’t have been able to bear it if Jaime weren’t so steadfast by her side. He allowed her to cry when she needed to cry; he held her as she collapsed over the graves of her father, mother, sisters, and beloved brother. He held her together when she could not get a hold of herself, when she was unable to put herself back together on her own.

Hand in hand, she showed him all her secret spots: the blackberry patch at the edge of their property, the swimming hole hidden in the forest, the trails where she used to gallop on her horse and sing into the wind, the cliffs where one could see Storm’s End on a clear day.

Inside, her old house was covered with layer upon layer of dust. Jaime followed her as she entered through the door, his eyes carefully trained on her, ready to hold her in case she fell.

“It’s so strange,” Brienne marvelled, looking around at their drawing room. “There’s so much dust, but it almost feels as if Galadon or my father could walk in any minute.”

She hit a discordant note on the upright piano, wincing at the sound.

“This is where you learned how to play the piano?” Jaime asked, coming up from behind her.

She nodded. “Gods, everything is still here, as I left it. It’s been nine years, and no one has come in and taken anything away.”

He looked at her steadily.

She gave him a faint smile. “I know. I heard the whispers at the docks. Everyone thinks this place is haunted. That the Evenstar’s family was all destroyed was an ill omen. People think this place is cursed.”

“Not all.” He said, squeezing her hand. “You survived.”

Her eyes watered, and her heart squeezed.

Jaime looked around at the high beams of the ceiling, the solid stone floors. “You know, this place is still in good shape, despite it being left alone for all these years.”

Brienne felt Jaime come behind her and his arms surrounding her waist. “We could make this place alive again if you wanted to live here, wench.”

She gave him a surprised look. She leaned back into him. “Huh. When I left when I was fifteen, I vowed never to set foot on the island again. I just wanted to run away and forget all the terrible things that happened to my family.” She gazed at the paintings and portraits still hanging on the walls. “But being back here, I never expected that it would still feel like home.” She turned around and faced him. “But Jaime, it really does feel like home. I missed the sea air, the meadows, the hills. I miss the cliffs. I miss this piano and the warmth of this place.”

“Then we’ll fix it up. And live here.”

“Oh?” She gave him a look of pure delight.

“We’ll raise our children here.”

“Oh, Jaime.” She hugged him tight, his cheek warm against hers.

“We can invite Oberyn and Ellaria and the entire circus here. I’ll even tolerate you inviting Jon, Robb and the rest of the Starks, wench.”

Brienne laughed into his neck as he tightened his hold on her.

“Hells, I think I can even be inspired by this place. The sea air is sure to do me good.”

Brienne had a secret thrill when Jaime mentioned children. She imagined the joyous laughter and mischievous giggling that would echo in the halls of the house. She imagined little blond boys and girls romping through tall grasses, chasing sheep, dogs bounding around them, cats curled up on their laps in front of a fire. Her heart felt comfortingly warm. Brienne had always assumed she would die alone, the last of the Tarth line. But that was not to be her future, especially with Jaime beside her. She was not alone anymore, and would never be again.

Brienne didn’t know about faith or the Seven; she didn’t know if it was chance or fate that shaped her life. But she did know that at some point, she stood up to whatever forces that had buffeted and battered her life. She made a choice to stand still. She made a choice to allow herself to love. She made a choice to allow herself to be loved.

No storms would break her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I hope you enjoyed reading Dark Falcon; I certainly enjoyed writing it. Thanks so much to you readers, especially those who have commented. I really love and appreciate the feedback and support.
> 
> As for the future, I don't have any more fics planned. But who knows when inspiration may strike? Meanwhile, I'll continue to enjoy reading all the marvellous JB stories out there.
> 
> I'm on twitter @Weirwoo1 if you want to know some of my JB fic recs.


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